A COURT OF SHADOWS
by makraw13
Summary: TOG & ACOTAR crossover *Spoilers: EOS & ACOWAR* Set after A Court of Mist and Fury and immediately following the events of Empire of Storms, this fan fiction alternates characters' points of view from both series and follows an alternate ending of EOS (elaboration in introduction). Follow along as worlds collide, battles intersect, and magics intertwine.
1. SWITCHED TO WattPad

Please note that I write primarily on Wattpad, and if you want to read the most updated version of this story, you should look on my account:

story/90629620-a-court-of-shadows

If you are unable to use Wattpad and are interested in receiving the chapters through a different system, or being shared to my writing Google docs, PM me.

Thanks!

\- Michaela


	2. INTRODUCTION

This story follows an alternate ending of Empire of Storms, where Aelin does not give the wyrdkeys to Manon before facing Maeve, but is put in the box with the stones in her back pocket.


	3. PART 1: AELIN

**PART I: AELIN**

She was floating in a dark, endless void. Her eyes could not find purchase and she struggled to breath against the suffocating pressure of a heavy iron mask. Her body was wrapped in chains and she had remained still for so long that the only way she knew she was still alive was from the pain.

Every breath was interrupted by a surge of excruciating fire from her back; shooting up her spine and down her limbs, consuming every muscle and burning every nerve—the nausea that follows was equally debilitating. Though she spent all of her energy focusing on the physical pain, underneath, there was also a sharp tension in her chest—a constricting throb that labored each breath even further; threatening to overwhelm her conscious mind at any moment.

She didn't know how long she had been in the gods-damned box, and she didn't allow the gravity of her decision to sink in yet. Instead, she forced all of her energy into spiraling down inside herself; scrounging up any last drops of power that she could find.

The two shards of obsidian stone sat in her pocket, pressed against her side—a sharp reminder of her friends that she betrayed and her destiny that she failed so miserably.

She knew that she wouldn't have an opportunity to destroy them, not with most of her magic depleted and her entire body chained like a savage animal.

Darkness began to seep into her body, a cold isolation that belonged to a girl from the past.

The same darkness that plagued a young, naïve assassin chained in the back of a wagon, slowly regaining the ability to move, but not having the strength do so. A girl from a time when the words, "I will not be afraid" had yet to gain meaning.

But this was not the past, and she was not done. As long as she was still breathing, she still had something left to offer—something to give her court at least a fighting chance in this impossible war that she had forced upon them.

If she couldn't destroy the wyrdkeys before Maeve got her hands on them, then she'd have to make them disappear—maybe send them back to her court and hope that they found another way to get rid of them.

This was her last job.

Her one last duty to her friends, to her family, and to her kingdom.

And with that one thought in mind; despite being trapped in an iron casket, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius started developing a plan.


	4. PART 2: AELIN

**PART II: AELIN**

Aelin was suddenly jerked awake from a less than pleasant slumber.

 _Had she imagined the loud thud and brief sensation of falling?_

Her question was answered when the dark void suddenly filled with a bright white and blinded her eyes.

A second later, she was lifted up and out of her iron box and onto a cold stone floor. She tried to crane her neck upward, but the weight of the chains and mask were too much for her without the use of her arms, so she was limited to the view of an arched ceiling made of pale stone and the colorful glass lights that hung from it.

Another second later, she was lifted vertically into as much of a standing position that she could manage in chains. The first thing she noticed was that the floor was not stone, but made of many delicate tiles, forming into a mosaic that spread across the room. The second was the roaring waterfall in the distance, reaching past the marble palace walls and overlooking the colorful city below. The third was the many sentries stationed around the perimeter of the room, weaving in and out of the massive stone columns; all with arrows trained on her back. And the fourth was her Aunt Maeve—once again sitting across the dais on her throne of stone.

Aelin continued examining the room, straining against the grips of two fae males—the twins, as she called them- one light, and one dark; the same two, she remembered, who had held Rowan in place while he was whipped, less than a year prior.

She shuddered involuntarily. Nothing had changed in Doranelle; if she closed her eyes, she could see the entire encounter—Her, Rowan, Maeve, the ring, and the whip.

Nothing had changed, except the triumphant grin currently spread across her aunt's lips.

A Sentry walked forward and began to unwind the chains, starting with the mask. "Doranelle welcomes you back, Fire-Bringer. How was your trip?" the Queen asked without ever breaking her smile. Aelin remembered the fear she felt upon her arrival with Rowan, and she mentally scolded her younger self for being so intimidated.

The mask hit the floor and Aelin held back a snarl. "Well, it was no first class, but I guess not all kingdoms can accommodate my usual standards."She then made a show of turning her head and examining the room once again.

"—especially ones in such _financial_ _distress_. I apologize for whatever strain my visit has put on your books. It's clear the money could have gone elsewhere." As the chains were removed, the guards' hold tightened

The queen proceeded to cross her legs and lean her head on a hand against her throne, as if she were already bored. "I look forward to the day when I finally break the heir of Brannon in such a way, that she no longer has the willpower to make such childish remarks."

This time Aelin did snarl, jerking against her captors; towards her aunt as the final chains were removed.

Maeve uncrossed her legs and pushed up off the throne, gracefully descending the dais and approaching Aelin, who continued to struggle. She pointed to the ground, and Aelin was pushed forward onto her knees, her arms twisted behind her. Her back screamed in pain and she gasped with the shock of hitting the stone. Before she could lift her head to look at Maeve, the queen grabbed her chin with her hand and lifted it for her. Aelin tried to twist away, but the tension on her arms increased and Maeve forced their eyes to meet.

"Until then," she purred, "I will take great pleasure in watching you tortured. I will break you down again, and again; as many times as it takes—every day and every night, until the great fire-bringer's flame is not only extinguished, but nonexistent. By time I'm done with you, the infamous fire-breathing bitch queen won't even remember her own name. I will turn you into nothing, and then remake you into what you could have been—what you would have been had it not for your pathetic excuse for a mother—"

Suddenly, Aelin sent a huge mouthful of saliva into Maeve's face, causing the queen to drop her chin and stumble back.

The sentries pulled her arms back even more, to the point of dislocation, but Aelin continued to bare her teeth at her aunt, who was now wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. The queen examined her sleeve and let out a low chuckle before turning back to Aelin.

"We'll see if you still have the breath to spit after another session with Cairn." Aelin's back seared again, and something deep inside of her stomach twisted

The Queen straightend. "But first, I have some things to attend to." She looked to Aelin. "—believe it or not, the world does not revolve around you."

With that, the queen turned back to her throne with a swish of her dark skirts, and Aelin was dragged away through a set of large wooden doors, stumbling to get her feet underneath her- the power of a thousand fires burning in her eyes.

...

Aelin was thrown onto the floor of a cell, the impact so jolting that she felt it rattle her teeth. The iron cell door slammed shut with a harsh clang that resonated off the stone walls for a few seconds before fading away. The noise was resounding. Standing up, she listened to her captors take a few steps before stopping. Normally, she would take this time to walk around the cell to examine her surroundings and start developing a plan, but she didn't need to walk around her tiny cell to know that there was an entire cadre of fae males waiting outside the door, and that the stone walls were full of iron.

Besides... she already had a plan.

Aelin quickly rushed to the wall adjacent with the door. She began running her hands across the stone, feeling for the smoothest portion of the wall. There could be no flaws.

Then, before she could convince herself otherwise, she reached behind her back and dug her fingers into her wounds, clenching her teeth and fighting back a scream with her tears. Her fingers pulled away covered in blood, and lifting her hand to the wall, she began to write...


	5. PART 3: AELIN

**PART III: AELIN**

Slowly at first, but quickly gaining a rhythm, Aelin carefully drew out the wyrdmarks. Straining against her memory, the marks came to her one after another, as if being sent by some unknown force. And the arch—much smaller than the one she created in Adarlan—began to form. The iron in the walls would limit her power, but she didn't need an opening into the Otherworld. She just needed a small portal to a place a few thousand miles away for two very small rocks.

Once the small arch was completed—the marks drawn to the best of her ability, Aelin slipped her hand into her pocket, pulling out one of the wyrdkeys, and took a quick glance towards the door.

She turned to the wall and closed her eyes, digging through her memory for the correct words. She quickly found the right incantation, memories of dark earthy pages filing her inner vision, and began reciting the strange language barely above a whisper.

A few lines in, she began to feel the drain on her body but clenched her fists around the stone and pushed herself to keep going. Just as the wyrdmarks began to glow, she heard the footsteps of a guard coming to investigate her strange ranting. She pushed herself harder, forcing the words to come faster than they wanted; the stone digging into her hand hard enough to draw blood. The ritual started to drain her even faster, and she could feel the last drops of her power being sucked into the air with her words.

The portal was completely formed, and she was on her last line of the incantation when her cell door swung open. She finished the last line and was preparing to lunge towards the wall when she heard a shout and a guard rushed in. She dodged his initial attack and ducked under his arm, but he turned and grabbed the back of her arm, using her momentum to swing her into the wall, her head slamming against the surface just feet away from the portal.

The guard now had her arms pinned, and she ccould vaguely see a few more guards running in. She sagged a little in his grasp, her face pressed against the wall, the disappointment beginning to seep in.

She looked towards the portal and saw a forest of trees—the smell of pine and snow pulsing out through the wyrdmarks. Her heart twinged at the sight of her home country, Terrasen; also the smell of her mate. The sight gave her another burst of strength she didn't know she had.

Twisting her head from the wall, Aelin brought her knee up hard into the guard's groin and used his moment of surprise to pull her arm from the wall and reach toward the portal. She was a moment away from dropping the stone into the portal when she sensed dark magic and immediately threw up a shield. A moment later, Aelin's wall of flame was hit with a force that shoved her back into the wall, a cry escaping her lips. Through her flames, she could see Maeve's fierce determinedness behind her dark powers.

Her arms already shaking from holding off the queen's blow in such a weak state, Aelin turned her head across the stone and saw that the portal had changed. Rather than green, the wyrdmarks were now shining an intense hue of dark blue, and the trees had changed to an endless black scattered with white lights. Aelin's first thought was of a night sky.

She looked at her blood-covered hand and then back to the wall. When she hit the wall, her hand left a new line across one of the wyrdmarks, changing the arch and thus the entire ritual. Before she ccoul think better of it, she threw the wyrdkey through the portal.

Maeve yelled and Aelin was reaching for the second wyrdkey when her shield was hit again, throwing her back against the wall with a much greater force. Her shoulder exploded when she hits the stone, overcoming even the pain in her back, and Aelin cried out with an animal ferocity.

"Will you never learn?" She heard over the roaring in her head.

The force of the attack increased, and her shield began to flicker, the wall of flames diminishing more and more by the second. Aelin continued to push back while pulling out the last stone. But before she could even raise her hand towards the portal, her shield collapsed, and the flames were overwhelmed by the blackness of Maeve's power.

Aelin slid down the wall, screaming as excruciating pain impaled her head and shot throughout her body. She was just lucid enough to see her hand drag through the wyrdmarks as she fell to the floor, changing the portal once again.

The next thing she knew, two rough sets of hands were yanking her off the ground, and she was once again being hauled off by two guards, one of whom was the guard who had pinned her against the wall. They stopped across the cell, leaving Aelin in full view of Maeve and her portal, now shining red with a view into what appeared to be an empty bedroom.

"I guess Cairn will just have to start his work a little early," the queen said through an enraged scowl. She motioned to a guard standing along the wall, and he moved to take the second wyrdkey from her hand. Before he could touch her, Aelin turned to the guard on her left and spat in his eye. He flinched back, and she yanked her arm from his grip, using its momentum to swing around and punch the guard on her right in the face. She used the brief moment of distraction to pull the bow from the back of the guard who she had punched. She took aim, with the wyrdkey pulled taut against the string like an arrow, and released the string, shooting the stone across the cell and into the portal with the perfect precision that had been beaten into her.

The whole encounter took a mere three seconds, and by the fourth second, she was on the ground, with her hands bent behind her back, and Maeve's screams resonating against the stone walls as the portal closed and the light blinked out. The whole scene felt as final as the initial close of her cell door.

Aelin knew that her body was in pain, and that what she'd experienced so far was nothing compared to what was to come. She knew that she would probably be in pain for the rest of her life and that there would be no light at the end of this tunnel; however, she couldn't help but smile.

The wyrdkeys may not have gone to Terrasen or her court, and she didn't think she was fortunate enough for them to have landed in Wendlyn, Eyllwe, or even Adarlan. But they were finally out of Maeve's reach, and neither she nor Erawan had any idea where to find them.

And any place or scenario was better than that alternative...right?


	6. PART 4: AMREN

**PART IV: AMREN**

A small, petite woman with tan skin and silky black hair sat at a small table outside a small restaurant next to a large river. Were it not for the many jewels that she wore on her hands, around her neck and from her ears, contrasting the varying dark grays of her clothes, she might've blended in with the black night entirely. She was all alone, and the nighttime sky sparkled with a beauty fit for any special occasion or romantic evening, but no one dared even to look at her for longer than a moment. Her smoky silver eyes and otherworldly malice were enough to deter even the bravest of suitors.

Though many of the buildings around her were damaged and crumbling, as well as much of the streets, there was a vibrant spirit of hope surrounding the city, and the restaurant behind her was lively and overflowing with the aromas of passionate cooking. The colorful atmosphere was not deterred, but accented by the crisp starry night, and there was a sense of returning peace to a broken land.

The soft landscape of faraway mountains and the constant thrum of distant music created its own brand of serene silence. Even the river running adjacent to the restaurant seemed to agree, for it remained as still as the woman watching it.

The otherworldly quiet was briefly interrupted by the opening of a door from the restaurant.

A slim, dark-skinned female swept through the opening, holding an unmarked bottle containing a deep red liquid that sloshed against the sides. The owner immediately began filling a wine glass. The customer just remained silent, staring out across the water, as if experiencing a distant memory; her hand absentmindedly reaching for one of the diamonds around her neck.

Once her glass was brimming, she picked up the drink and inhaled deeply, warmth blooming across her now smiling face as she finally acknowledged the owner's presence. The owner bowed curtly in response, and the customer was halfway through her glass before the restaurant doors had even swung shut. The woman was setting down her glass and slowly licking her lips when she saw movement from the corner of her eye. She turned in her seat to witness a small black object plunging from the sky, catching the glimmer of nearby stars and lights before unceremoniously dropping and bouncing off one of the metal tables across the court. The sharp plunk of the object hitting the table shattered the serene silence with such abruptness that it seems as if the impact broke the developing peace of not just the small restaurant, but the entire city as well.

The woman sitting in her seat swiftly left the table and within seconds was across the court, standing above a strange obsidian stone. Immediately after making contact she dropped it back on the table, hissing as a dark and powerful energy surged from her fingertips through the rest of her body. Even after she broke the connection, she could sense the otherworldly power emanating from the rock and pulsing in the air. The only sound in the quiet night was of the river's water breaking from an invisible pulse that sent waves across its surface. She bent to examine the oddity, but was soon interrupted by the opening of the restaurant door once more. She quickly stood and made her way to the end of the street, but not before grabbing her bottle of spiced blood, and pocketing the strange shard of stone.


	7. PART 5: FEYRE

**PART V: FEYRE**

The sun was shining bright, and the vibrant colors of plant-life filled the space. Greens of full hedges, dotted with the deep reds and pinks of roses, behind that, a forest treeline made of more intense hues of greens, and further beyond, an encompassing blue of a clear sky that extended as far as the eye could see.

The garden was teeming with colorful life and everything swayed gently in the musical breeze- everything except for the girl and her painting.

Feyre Archeron sat on a small wooden stool placed in the middle of one of the Spring Court's gardens. She'd been out there for a few hours, enjoying the scenery, yet her canvas did not depict flowers or blue skies. Her piece was of a dark sky, spotted with thousands of stars which lead to a soft gray mountain landscape. And below that, a large city- filled with so many lights and vivid colors, that the observer could almost hear the lively music and smell the light breeze from the ocean, above which the magnificent city floated. The passionate atmosphere was palpable.

Her hands swept gracefully across the easel, leaving confident marks wherever the brush touched; filling every space with beautiful life. The girl was equally covered in paint, her arms practically blending in with the picture from afar. If anyone had bothered to examine the girl closer, they might have noticed the white clenching of her hands on the brush, the determined twist of her mouth, or the narrow; focused set of her eyes, and felt some apprehension. If they had looked even closer, they might have seen the single tear escaping from her eye that spoke volumes of where her passionate art originated from.

Finally, she set down her brush and gently folded her hands in her lap, examining the painting. Absentmindedly, she sent a quick wave of love down the line, and was immediately met with one in return. She smiled to herself and gently wiped her tear off her cheek before gathering up her supplies.

With her easel folded under one arm and the box of paint and brushes under the other, she carefully grabbed the painting by the edges and headed towards the manor.

Unlike when she first arrived, now the Spring Court was filled with magic and bustling activity. Every turn revealed another handful of faeries, most of them servants. She knew that when she first arrived, Tamlin had glamoured all of the faeries so as not the scare her when she was a human, but she suspected that with magic back, there were many more people than before.

As she walked through the front entrance, many people acknowledged her presence with a small nod of respect. A few people she was more acquainted with stopped to appreciate her work. Of course, all they saw was a mediocre field of pink roses- Feyre had glamoured the canvas. She took each compliment with a timid thank you and a small mutual laugh at all the paint on her person, before making a quick departure with the excuse of needing to get ready for dinner.

Feyre was ascending the grand staircase and about to turn down her corridor when a chill went down her spine that hitched her breath and stopped her feet. She turned to look across the landing and down another hallway. The tickling sensation pursued, and she found her feet carrying her down the hall.

She passed several doors on both sides of the corridor, and the tingling gradually intensified. Feyre had only been in this wing of the manor once or twice while initially exploring the court; as far as she knew, it was just guest suites, and a few storage rooms.

Nearing the back of the corridor, she passed a door to one of the suites and immediately felt a tug backwards. She sharply turned around and approached the plain wood door. She knocked on the door while silently praying that the room was not in use. She waited for about half a minute with no reply; then set her supplies against the wall. She took a quick, furtive glance down the hall before slipping into the room and slowly closing the door behind her.

Feyre turned her back to the door and examined the room. It was as she expected, just an empty guest suite that consisted of a bedchamber, a bathroom, and a small parlor. The decor followed the rest of the manor, with a series of beautifully ornamented silver furniture, covered in off-white upholstery, and accented with a shimmery muted gold. The same golden hue was displayed in the draperies, the chandeliers, and the trim around the walls and ceiling. Stands of bouquets of roses spread out across the room topped off the elegant look.

Feyre hated it. She hated the Spring Court and all of the frills and excess smothering that came with it. The only place she didn't feel suffocated by materialism was in the gardens, and with her no doubt-ridiculously-expensive art supplies on hand, sometimes even that was hard.

Another tingling wave washed down her back, and Feyre stepped away from the door, following the feeling into the bedroom. Nothing appeared out of place in this room either, until she found herself on her hands and knees-pulling away the skirts at the bottom of the bed. She squinted in the darkness before reaching her arm underneath and sweeping her hand across the wooden floor. Her fingers hit something hard, and she heard it skitter across the floor. She stood up and moved across the room to the side of the bed. There was a bump in the fabric, and Feyre lifted the bed skirt, revealing a small black stone on the floor.

She reached down to pick it up, but stopped mid-air when the tingling sensation intensified to a sharp pulse of power. It rushed over her body, and the glamour on her arm faltered, briefly showcasing the elaborate Illyrian tattoo that swirled up her arm- her High Lady mark. She pulled back slightly, examining her arm, before bending entirely and picking up the stone. She flinched upon touching it, expecting to feel another wave of its dark energy, but it remained just a constant thrum, and she relaxed.

She held it closer to examine, but at the same moment, she heard footsteps outside the door. With a slight startle she turned to see Lucien walk through the door. Feyre tucked her hands against her sides; she hoped, imperceptibly hiding the stone within her skirts.

"Feyre," he said, glancing her up and down; his eye spinning. "I wouldn't expect you to be all the way up here."

Feyre straightened her spine, using her empty hand to gesture to the room, "I was just exploring. I wasn't able to get to this room before I was taken." She focused on making her voice sound casual, and was pleased when it didn't shake.

Lucien cocked his head slightly, looking pointedly at her paint-covered arms. "Really? Because it looks like you were painting, not exploring."

Feyre took just a single breath to gather her thoughts before meeting his eyes. "I just came from painting." She cooled her voice, "Were you following me?"

Crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, Lucien also cooled his voice. "I saw your painting supplies outside the door. Is there a reason I should be following you?"

The tension in the room was constricting as Feyre narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin. "None that I can think of," she said with a slight twist of her lips. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go wash off all this paint." She made to open the door, but as she passed him, he grabbed her wrist; holding her back.

Her breath caught as she stared at his hand on her wrist and wondered if he too could feel the otherworldly presence seeping through her fingers.

"Feyre-" He seemed to struggle for words. "I am not your enemy-" The sincerity in his eyes gave Feyre stop, and realizing how coiled she was, she loosened her stance.

He stuttered, "-neither is Tamlin." And with that, Feyre's back went rigid and her arms taut, ready to fight again.

Lucien continued. "He messed up, and he knows it. He made some bad decisions and he regrets what he did, he really does. I'm sorry I wasn't able to help him- or you, for that matter; I think about it every day-if there was something I could have done to prevent- well, this." He gestures to the entire room, using both hands, as if the frilly decor was the problem.

"And now he's in a lot of trouble- he's in a really deep hole. And I don't know how, or if he's going to be able to get out of it- this deal with Hybern. And this stuff with Jurien and the cauldron, and your-," Lucien cuts off and slips a quick glance at Feyre, shuddering at the word "sisters," and Feyre knew he was thinking about his mate, Elain. He took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair; looking away, as if it was too painful to even look at her.

"What I'm trying to say is- look, you and I both know that his intentions were good. He really thought he was doing the right thing-" And this was where Feyre had had enough. She jerked her arm out of his grasp, stepping backward.

"No. I don't know. I have no idea what he was thinking or if his intentions were good, because no one will tell me anything!," she advanced, her voice raising.

"I've asked countless times for someone to tell me what happened while I was gone, but I can barely get two words out of anyone!" Feyre advanced even further and pressed her finger against Lucien's chest, pushing him backwards with every sentence.

"What deal did Tamlin make with Hybern? Why is he in so much trouble? What happened that makes everyone flinch every time I bring up Calanmai?-" which Lucien did indeed do at her mention of the Great Rite.

"And why can't I be involved!?" She pushed him back once more, and his back hit the wall. She lifted her chin higher, and even though he had a few inches on her, anyone watching the encounter would have said that they were the same height- her fierce gaze compensating for any difference in physical strength.

Her eyes bore into him for a few more seconds before she huffed and took a step back. She glanced at him with a pleading look, and the contrast was unsettling.

"I'm tired of being left in the dark."

Lucien looked down at her and slowly cracked his lips; Feyre's heart jumped up her chest, elated that she was finally going to get some answers. However, a moment later, his mouth snapped shut and he looked at her sorrowfully. "I can't-"

Immediately, Feyre felt her body stiffen and her voice go cold. There was fire in her eyes. "Fine. Don't tell me. It's not like ignorance hasn't gotten any of us in trouble before," she said with as much bitter sarcasm as she could muster. "I'm going to go get ready for dinner."

Lucien pushed off the wall, his mouth opening once more to say something, but Feyre was already at the door. Halfway through the opening, she paused with her hand on the jamb, and turned her head just barely perceptibly.

"Lucien-"

He looked up, expectant, but her gaze was ice cold and the room had created unique shadows—dark, swirling shadows that appeared to coil around her head and down her arms, resembling a dark crown and lace gloves.

"-don't follow me."

And with that, Feyre Archeron swept out the door and down the hall, her art supplies undertow, and the wood of her painting bending with the effort of not snapping the entire thing in half.


	8. PART 6: FEYRE

**PART VI: FEYRE**

Feyre's pastel green skirts swept gracefully across the floor as she took her seat across the room. Today the table was big enough to fit about six, though she'd seen it extend to fit more than fifty. Lucien was already seated, but Tamlin was always the last to arrive; whether it was due to having to pull himself away from work, or a love for being dramatic, she didn't know, so she took the few minutes before dinner started to compose herself and erase any conflicted emotions off her face.

When she arrived to her chambers, her team of servants was standing at the ready to get her prepared for dinner. Knowing she couldn't hide the little stone from them while they dressed her, she pleaded ambition and dismissed all of them at once, but not without a few suspicious glances.

She took a moment to check that her rooms were clear, before turning across the room and approaching a tapestry hanging on the wall. It was a garden scene that featured every flower Feyre had ever seen, and some that she hadn't. She felt a slight a pang as she wondered if Elain would be able to identify all of them. Feyre shook her head slightly- now was not the time to get all nostalgic. Besides, it wasn't the tapestry that interested her, it was what's underneath. She lifted the fabric away from the wall. At first glance, nothing looked out of place- it was just a wall. But when Feyre lifted her glamour, the slight indents of a wall panel became just distinguishable. She curled her nails under the hinges and swung open a large door. It didn't quite lead to another room, but an alcove of sorts. The space was just big enough to squeeze maybe two people- not comfortably though, and Feyre imagined that the door would be difficult to close from the inside. It was currently being used to house all of Feyre's painting of the Night Court. She couldn't very well hang a picture of Rhysand in the manor's gallery, though the idea made her smile.

No, the gallery was for all of her mediocre paintings of rose gardens and sunny skies, of which her sole purpose in painting was to ward off suspicion. She spent so much time painting, that it wouldn't take long for people to begin wondering where they all went. Feyre stepped into the tiny room and carefully set the stone on the floor, behind a painting of wolves running through the streets of Velaris. She closed the door and pulled the tapestry back into place; reinforcing her glamour. She briefly worried about someone sensing the stone's otherworldly presence and entering her room to search for it, but she hoped that common sense and her glamour would be enough.

Feyre had strengthened her magic by practicing whenever she could and learning to maintain her glamours twenty-four hours a day, so she had no doubt that the door would remain hidden from sight, even if they bothered to check behind the tapestry. However, the stone's magic appealed to her so strongly, that she thought it might very well be possible for a determined person to find it.

And that was why she now sat at the table, taking deep breaths and clenching her hands to keep her nerves at bay; thanking the cauldron mercilessly that no one in the room could read her mind.

She felt like she finally had a grasp on her emotions when the doors burst open and Tamlin strode in. Upon passing Feyre's seat, he bent down and quickly pressed his lips to her head before sliding into his chair across from her. Knowing that if he was really attracted to her in that moment, they would be doing a lot more than kissing, Feyre often thought that the whole peck-on-the-cheek before every meal was more a show of possession than affection.

Tamlin bowed his head slightly to Lucien, who was seated at his right, before turning back to the table and clapping his hands in the air. This small action filled the entire table with plates and plates of food- way more than the three of them could possibly eat in one sitting. Feyre's stomach turned at the sight of all the food- not from hunger, but from the knowledge that there were thousands of people just outside this manor who desperately needed it.

Nevertheless, she had a part to play. She plastered a slight smile on her face and reached for the nearest tray of assorted fruits. A little ways into the meal, Tamlin finally broke the silence.

"Feyre, I apologize for not spending the day with you-" _He had promised the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that._

"-Something came up that demanded my immediate attention-" _Probably involving his deal with the King of Hybern, but of course he wasn't going to elaborate._

"-I hope you were able to enjoy the day nonetheless." _Him implying that her favorite pastime is spending time with him and that it's hard to compete with._

Feyre was not going to give him the impression that the situation was okay with her, so rather than dismissing his absence she replied "Yes, the weather was very beautiful today. I did a little painting in the garden before dinner."

For a moment she thought she saw Tamlin shrink back a little at her lack of forgiveness, but it was gone in a second. Lucien's pointed accusatory glare was unmistakable. Feyre had the brief urge to mouth the name "Elain" just to see what his reaction would be, but she restrained.

She ignored Lucien and returned to her plate. "Will we be visiting the villages tomorrow, like you promised last week?"

She met eyes with Tamlin from across the table; a quick sorrowful glance in her direction informed her that they would not.

He had finally given her free range of visiting the Spring Court's subjects, and she did so often. She enjoyed seeing families and experiencing different cultures. Now that some time had passed from Amarantha's reign, and most everything had been rebuilt, the people were a little keener to interact with Feyre, now that some of her holy-savior-otherness had worn off. Not only did she enjoy speaking with varieties of people, but the outer edges of the court acted as a reminder of sorts- a reminder of why she was here.

At first, Tamlin had bade Feyre to stay within a certain range of the manor, but it had yet to become a direct order, so he guards were perfectly capable of following her, ergo hesitantly, further; into the outer reaches of the land. Here, Amarantha's regime had hit much harder; therefore, the progress was slower. The cobblestone streets gave way to dirt paths, and the colorful atmospheric markets began to fade to brown. The further you got, the smaller the buildings became, and the more the houses appeared to be made out of scraps. At the very edge of the Court, the only colors present were the oranges of constant bonfires and the greens of distant crop fields, speckled with dots of brown from the constant stream of field-workers.

The men were muscled from working the crops, but the women and children were unbearably gaunt. Feyre had to take deep breaths when she thought of the tithe and the hindrance it put on their profits. She remembered the thousands of people standing in line, clutching animals or lugging baskets brimming with food- food that these people did not have the means to spare.

It was not uncommon for some of Feyre's jewelry to go missing on the days she visited the outer villages.

She never visited the outer villages with Tamlin, and she wasn't sure if the guards told him they did, so she never brought it up. She was given very little freedom at the Spring Court, and she wasn't about to jeopardize any of it. Frankly, she was surprised that he let her leave the manor at all- of course, only under the protection of a handful of guards, or Tamlin himself, but it was progress.

She would have liked to give him credit, but she still couldn't see past the throne room- the blood gushing from Azriel's armor, with Mor leaning over him; tears streaking down her cheeks, Cassian and his wings- _oh Cassian._ And worst of all, Rhysand kneeling- _kneeling_ -on the ground in front of the king.

Feyre clenched her eyelids to stop the tear that was threatening to escape. A moment later, she felt the ghost sensation of a tongue licking it off her cheek, as well as a slight tug down their bond. Her vision was compounded with a scene she had imagined painting from the moment she saw it- a beautiful dark prince on his knees, his head hanging low, and his silky hair tousled. The intricate black markings emphasized by the slight gleam of sweat; contrasting with the brightness of the stars in the darkness that emanated from his body. His dark wings filling the frame and the whole glory of him visible with-

A throat cleared, and Feyre was shook out of her reverie to find the whole table watching her.

She straightened in her chair, "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

Tamlin squinted at her, almost imperceptibly before once again clearing his throat and shifting his weight. "I was just informing everyone that I have an important meeting to attend tomorrow, and will not be dining with you in the afternoon or the evening." _And therefore, not going to the villages with you..._

Feyre clenched her hands under the table. It'd been months since she arrived, and he was still so secretive that he couldn't even bother to say that he was leaving in the morning. _Unable to dine with you—by the cauldron!_

She could feel her palms warming and curled her fingers to ward off the magic. "That's alright. I'm sure we'll be able to make due," she replied with a purposeful slight furrow to her brow and downcast eyes.

Normally, this would be the point in the meal where she practically begs Tamlin to let her be involved and tell her what's going on. But since that goal seemed indefinitely far away, lately, Feyre had been focusing on just getting some training time- baby steps, she thought.

She started off with the obvious reasons, such as being an asset, or that she might as well learn to control them since they're not going away. Then she resorted to telling him that she wanted to train so she'd never have to feel weak, or be used against her will like she was at the Night Court again (She always sent a little tug down the bond during those monologues).

But both strategies always resulted in the same responses:

 _You don't need to worry about my business with Hypern. You don't need to train, you're safe now. I'll protect you; no one will ever get near you again._

And her personal favorite- _I'll deal with it. Why don't you go paint?_

She often thought of pointing out that if something were to attack her, he wouldn't be able to do a thing about it, because he's never at the manor- and that the only way for her to be constantly under his protection, would be to physically join him in all of his meeting and business activities. But she shot that idea down right away, for fear that he would think she's worried about being attacked and assign more guards.

Feyre supposed that she sort of dug her own hole by claiming traumatic stress or sometimes amnesia whenever the situation got too personal, or the questions too difficult to avoid. She'd made it three months without anything happening between her and Tamlin, but she wasn't sure how long she could keep him at bay.

Normally, she would push the matter of training, but not tonight. She had other things to worry about. Other small, black, mysteriously appearing things.

Once again, Feyre looked up, and the two males were looking at her. _What had she missed?_ She glanced back and forth between them before returning to her plate. Lucien continued to scrutinize her, but Tamlin's mouth was turned down slightly and his brow scrunched in concern. It made her extremely uncomfortable to have his pity. The dinner continued in the same way- Feyre's mind constantly wandering back to the hidden oddity.

"How are you feeling, Feyre?" Tamlin asked towards the end of the meal.

She sighed quietly. "Fine- just tired. Could I be excused early?"

There was nothing left for her to gain from this meal.

Tamlin stared at her a moment longer, as if assessing her person for obvious signs of sickness, before admitting her leave. They exchanged pleasantries and promised to see each other the following morning.

Tamlin's face remained concerned and Lucien's skeptical, and Feyre left the dining room, silently cursing herself for her daydreaming. She had planned to visit the library and do whatever research she could on the black stone, but now a late-night trip to the books would seem suspicious. She would just have to wait until tomorrow to begin finding information- if there was any.


	9. PART 7: FEYRE

**PART VII: FEYRE**

Five hours- over five hours Feyre had spent in the library, scouring through every section, every range, every shelf, every book, and nearly every page. Five hours, and she had come away with nothing. If the scope of Tamlin's library was as she expected, no one in the realm knew anything about the black stone. She'd found shelves and shelves of books about magical objects: amulets, jewels, swords, staffs, books, beauty accessories, cooking utensils; even one questionable account of a cursed lamp, but all those were ordinary objects bestowed upon with magic; whereas, the stone seemed to emanate it.

About four hours into her search, Feyre began wondering if the Book of Breathings had information on the stone, and afterwards, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep her thoughts from returning there. She had spent the last hour of her time in the library trying to prevent her mind from wandering and stifling the small twinge in her chest everytime she thought of where the book was now... and where she was not.

Feyre found herself looking out one of the large glass windows once more, and with an irritated sigh, slammed her book shut and set in on the table while falling into the nearest chair. She hung her head forward and rubbed her eyes, trying to make the letters disappear.

A low grumble from her stomach interrupted the quiet room, reminding Feyre that she had skipped lunch. Tamlin had left almost immediately following breakfast- to where, she didn't know- and the entire atmosphere, Feyre noticed, felt lighter. With the High Lord gone, the servants were more keen on socializing and making conversation in the halls, as if they no longer feared the repercussions of being caught slacking off. They were also more likely to make eye-contact with her; whereas, normally, they avoided it-something that bothered Feyre much more than she thought it should.

With the entire manor in a lighter mood, the regular protocols of daily life became relaxed, and Feyre didn't bother to dress up or attend the midday meal- something that she slightly regretted as she made her way out of the library and towards to kitchens.

Walking through the halls, even Feyre felt as if a small burden had been lifted off her shoulders.

With Tamlin gone, she didn't have to focus so much on acting her part, as no one watched her as closely as he did. The only other person who had any idea what had happened at the confrontation with Hybern was Lucien, but Feyre believed that he was in enough of a precarious situation with Elain to leave her alone for the time being. She didn't think that Lucien had hinted at anything to Tamlin yet, and part of her feared that it wouldn't last, but the other part thought that it might be fun to see how far she could push him until he did.

Feyre continued down the hall lost in thought; running her fingers over the stone that she kept in the pocket she had sewn into her gown the night before.

Despite the amount of time she had spent and the number of fighting techniques she had learned in her new body, she still wasn't entirely used to walking in shoes with heels, and she took extra time and care walking down the grande staircase.

Walking across the huge tiled entrance and towards the dining room which had a direct connection to the kitchens, Feyre was jolted to a stop mid-stride by a sudden wave of energy- energy that a second later, she deemed magical. She turned to examine the room, the back of her neck prickling. She removed her hand from the door to the dining room, of which she was about to enter, and made her way to the nearest window.

The window looked out upon one of the gardens, and Feyre spent a moment examining the path, but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. She turned back towards the center of the room and made for the giant doors of the main entrance-what she would have called the front door in any normal-sized home, when she heard Lucien call her name. She looked over her shoulder to see him approaching her from across the room. The wave of magic had clearly interrupted his daily activities as well.

"Did you feel it, too? She asked.

He nodded. "It was definitely some sort of magical presence..." he replied as Feyre opened the massive front door and began walking outside.

She made her way down the main steps and onto the path that lead to the manor, Lucien following her from behind. The ceremoniously-sounding groan of the larger-than-needed doors gave way to the graceful silence of nature and ethereal beauty of gardens stuck in an eternity of spring.

"...perhaps,-" he continued, but Feyre cut him off with a raise of her hand.

She stood still in the middle of the path and proceeded to close her eyes, opening her mind to her surroundings. She had practiced this with Rhysand and Azriel at the Night Court- using her Night Court powers to recognize patterns in thoughts and categorize brains. She bypassed Lucien's and reached out. This was a little different than what she practiced, because she didn't already know what she was looking for, rather, now she was looking for what she didn't recognize.

A little into her range, she sensed a vague fuzziness that she could only assume was a mind, though obviously different than the average servant. She opened her eyes and started towards the edge of the woods silently motioning for Lucien to follow, which he did without question. She didn't know how much he knew or suspected about her powers, but she wasn't about to elaborate if he asked.

The two of them crossed the silent yard, the only sound the slight crunch of their weight on the gravel path. The entire manor was fenced by tall green hedges, with occasional openings for the path to weave in and out before reaching the actual building. And nearly every green surface was brimming with varieties of flowers, both familiar and unfamiliar to Feyre's eyes. She couldn't help but picture how excited Elain would be at the prospect of all these plants. Feyre could picture Elain spending hours sitting in the gardens, meticulously attending to every single bud; possibly even taking the ambition to record all the plant-types. Maybe Feyre could paint all of the flowers in a book for Elain to organize her information. She smiled at the thought.

The pathway and hedges gave way to a clearing of grass before disappearing into the forest. She continued to lead them across the grass and into the edge of the treeline, while keeping her mind open for other thought patterns. As she neared the first giant tree, where she thought the feeling was coming from, she realized that it was too quiet- the normal chatter of animal life was missing. Only a second later, she realized that there was another brain in the area- the same brain belonging to the person who emerged from the treeline in the blink of an eye and jumped Feyre when she turned to warn Lucien.

Less than a moment later, Feyre was in the iron grasp of a fae male, who gripped both her arms in a single hand, with her back pressed against his chest, and a knife to her throat. The startled shout that now threatened to burst from Feyre's chest didn't even have time to form in her throat before she felt the unforgiving chill of a metal blade against her neck.

Lucien began to place a foot forward, his arm reaching for the dagger held at his waist, and a sentence forming on his lips, but the attacker immediately strengthened his grip, forcing Feyre's spine even straighter, as if good posture could save her from the blade.

"Don't," the male said, nodding pointedly towards the dagger.

Lucien's arm fell to his side, but his fingers remained slightly curled, ready to reach for it at any moment.

The attacker moved forward, pushing Feyre in front of him, and she took the moment to test his strength by pushing against his hands. His hold remained solid, and if Feyre still had any doubt that he was some sort of high fae, the second male who emerged from the treeline eradicated them all.

The male approaching their party-of-three was of giant muscular build and fitted with more leather and gleaming weapons than she thought possible for any mortal man. As he came closer, she noticed that his weapons were not his only asset reflecting the sunlight. Protruding from his face; forcing her to question her concept of the high fae, were two vicious-looking canine teeth, and from his head, a set of pointed ears matching that of Feyre and Lucien.

Lucien's attention kept flitting between the two intruders, and Feyre knew that the one holding her must look just as animalistic as the one who now stood less than ten feet away. Together, the four of them created a triangle of sorts; the whole encounter feeling completely intrusive in the light spring afternoon.

The male to her right was the first to speak. He didn't hold a sword, but the power of his voice spoke volumes as to what he could do with one.

"We mean you no immediate harm. We've come as delegates to her majesty, Queen Maeve of Doranelle."

Lucien's eyes narrowed briefly. "I do not know of any Doranelle or Queen Maeve," he replied. Afterwards, remembering that Feyre came from outside of Prythian, he turned his gaze to hers, but returned to face the male when she released her furrowed brow and shook her head slightly, signifying that she had not recognized the name either.

"This is the Spring Court of Prythian, ruled by the High Lord Tamlin. What is your Queen's business?"

Without missing a beat, the same male replied,"Perhaps we could meet your High Lord and relay our message personally,"-not quite an order, but not a question either.

None of the males moved, the tension of their conversation vibrating in the air. It was too many male-dominant figures in a too-small space. The pressure made Feyre want to shift her weight between feet.

Lucien appeared to contemplate his offer, though Feyre knew he had an immediate answer. She took the moment to brush up against the mind of the male who was holding her. Running her mind around the edge of his brain, she decided that he wasn't a powerful daemati, and before her conscience could convince her otherwise, she dove in.

Though some of his thoughts were hard to decipher, she understood that he was very old, extremely powerful, and held a strong emotional loyalty to his queen. If she didn't know better, she might say that what he had for her was love- his bond was so strong.

Though she hadn't been in the world of Prythian long, it was like nothing she'd ever encountered.

Lucien was the first to break the silence. "Very well. We will lead you to the High Lord's throne room, where you can wait for his presence."

And with that, though Feyre thought it was incredibly stupid to turn your back on an enemy so soon, Lucien started towards the manor; not even acknowledging that she was being held at knife point. However, when she opened her mouth to object, the knife was removed, and she was practically shoved aside as the two males pushed forward.

Feyre was severely offended, and if her shock hadn't been great enough to slow her thoughts, she might have lashed out with her powers right then and there.

Her objection still hanging on her open lips, Feyre quickly shut her mouth and began making her way up the path as well.

It took the entire walk up to the manor to calm her anger and compose her face, but even then, the sound of her heels on the flooring was much louder than before.

The three of them followed Lucien through the entrance, and Feyre watched the two delegates intently from behind. Though bulky in their armored muscle, the two figures moved with an ethereal grace and just emanated power. How anyone could possibly control these fearsome creatures, she didn't know.

Most servants they passed took one look at the group and immediately ducked their heads- some even changing direction as if they had just remembered they were supposed to be elsewhere. Normally this would have bothered Feyre, but today, she welcomed the isolation.

The throne room was not far from the main entrance, as that was where the High Lord met most of his guests. It was also the room where the tithe was collected. The memory still made Feyre shudder. Although, looking back at the two fae warriors, she couldn't deny that part of her wished Tamlin would return soon.

Lucien hadn't told them that Tamlin was currently absent- in fact, he had made it sound like the High Lord would be with them shortly. Feyre had no idea what time he would be returning, just that he was to miss lunch and the evening meal, which was still hours away.

Feyre switched her gaze and bore her eyes into the back of Lucien's head, willing him to turn around and give her answers. But his back remained rigid and his head continued facing forward. For a flicker of a moment, she considered just looking inside his head, but then guilt crashed down on her- her shoulders slightly bowing with the shame of how quickly she contemplated using another human being that way.

It was something that she worried about more and more frequently- losing herself inside her powers. Letting the feeling of control consume her until she used anyone and everyone for her own gain; treating everyone around her as pawns to her own interests, just like Amarantha or King Hybern. She knew that with enough practice, she could- she wished it scared her more than it did.

They reached the throne room, and Lucien opened the giant set of doors, stepping aside to let his three companions pass. Feyre went to follow the two males into the room, but before she could enter, Lucien grabbed her arm, stalling her feet. She looked up at him, and he gave her a pointed stare before briefly nodding his head and letting her go. She paused for a moment before looking away and entering the room.

A few paces into the room, she looked over her shoulder to see that Lucien was still standing in the doorway with his hands folded behind his back.

"You can wait here while I inquire after the High Lord," he announced. "Feyre will keep you company."

And before Feyre could even process what he had said, Lucien was gone- his red hair disappearing behind the large doors that now groaned shut.

So _that's_ what the look was for.

Pursing her lips, Feyre turned to her two new companions. Both had stationed themselves in the middle of the room, standing at ease, and each looking elsewhere.

Feyre's anger swelled up again. They couldn't even bother to take two seconds to determine if she was a threat or not. The male who had grabbed her- his only real physical difference from his companion his dark, raven hair- was examining the windows, his stance at a complete rest.

Recalling how she had been pushed aside, she entered his mind once more. He was counting the number of windows and trying to decipher the strength of their material, as well as determining approximately which point of impact would create the best effect if needed...

Slipping into the warriors' minds was almost too easy, and after hearing how arrogantly insufferable they were, her conscience didn't even flinch.

She switched to the other male- the one with more dark brown, chocolate hair. He was also examining the windows- then the ceiling, then the lighting fixtures, then the walls, and the flooring, and the throne chairs, and the tapestries, and the type of wood the doors were made of- his thoughts raced around the room, choreographing multiple plans of escape or attack come the need.

Feyre was dismayed to learn that he was only accounting three to four seconds to dispose of the young woman standing by the door.

Her dismay gave way to anger, and she clenched her fists against the building heat threatening to explode out of her palms. She took in a deep breath and tried to release it slowly, but then he changed his estimation to two seconds, and Feyre couldn't stand it any longer.

She knew that she should just brush it off- that the tactful move would be to let them think her weak and fragile. But Feyre spent every day allowing herself to be condescended to, and she was tired of taking it.

Releasing her pent-up breath into the air as a violent sigh, Feyre cocked her hip and cleared her throat. When the two fae males finally deemed her presence acknowledge-worthy and turned their reluctant gaze, she simply lifted her arm, flicked her wrist in a sort of circle, and winnowed away.

Just a second later, she reappeared at the head of the room, lounging in the throne. She crossed her legs gingerly as the warriors realized where she had gone.

"You know... normally it's the _host_ who gets chided for ignoring the _guests_." She smiled innocently, and her magic thrummed in response.

Still, neither of them changed their stance, and feeling annoyed even further, Feyre allowed some shadows to curl out from behind her chair, while opening her mind to their thoughts. The chocolate-haired one was thinking that her shadows resembled his queen's powers, and the raven-haired one was trying to recall everything he knew about teleporters and whether or not he had ever met one.

She smiled again. "Nope- not teleportation. Here, we call it 'winnowing.'"

This got the attention of raven-hair. Sensing his comrade's change in stance, chocolate-hair's body tensed as well. Both were now alert and poised for confrontation.

"That's better," Feyre exclaimed while uncrossing her legs and standing up on the dais.

The doors began to creak, and before the wood was even an inch apart, Feyre had winnowed away from the throne, her shadows dissipating in her wake. She appeared beside brown-hair, not quite within sword-range.

Both males flinched back, reaching for weapons, but Feyre held their arms still with barely perceptible shadows. They appeared ready to retaliate further, but were interrupted by Tamlin and his grand, double-door entrance.

Despite the haste he must had taken to get there so fast, especially if Lucien had told him that Feyre was alone with the two strangers, Tamlin looked quite composed and put together- not a blond hair or fold of clothing out of place. He too, radiated power- the slight glow to his already tanned skin caused by not only the late-afternoon sun and a wall of windows, but whatever animal he kept caged inside.

Tamlin began sauntering in, his eyes widening- flicking first, from Feyre, who stood with her hands folded in front of her dress and a small upturn to her lips; then, to the two rather-impressive fae males, who were clearly agitated and standing alert.

The first thing he said was, "Feyre, you are dismissed." Normally, she would have found this infuriating, but the confrontation and use of her magic had had such a joyous effect on her that she was able to ignore it. She practically skipped out of the throne room, her heeled shoes no longer proving troublesome. When she reached the doors, she turned back to look at the two males, who were watching her intently. Tamlin's back was turned to her, so she smiled and gave them a wink before placing her hand on the door jam and gliding out of the room.

On the way to the kitchens, she passed Lucien, who had apparently pulled some strings to get Tamlin here so fast. She gave him a wink too.

...

Feyre came down from her feminine-power-high about an hour later, when she realized how easily the delegates could describe everything they had witnessed to Tamlin. She was laying on her bed, flipping through the index of another history book and enjoying her full stomach when the realization came to her. She set the text in her lap and groaned loudly, falling backwards onto her pillows and covering her face with her hands.

What would Tamlin do if he found out? Maybe nothing at first- just inform her that he'd been told her powers are much more developed than she had led them to believe- accuse her of lying to them, and question her further. Would she be able to dodge all of his questions if they got too specific? How well would she be able to lie? And of course, everyone would be on guard and paying closer attention to her. She wouldn't be able to go anywhere or do anything without several pairs of eyes- and that was already hard enough as it was.

Then what? Surely, if he was paranoid enough, Tamlin would have her rooms searched. How well would her glamours hold? Would her secret compartment stay hidden? What if they found all her paintings, or the stone? Where would she be then? Perhaps, the two males would assume that the High Lord already knew about the powers of the woman staying in his court, and would consider it irrelevant and unnecessary to bring up.

She'd just have to play it safe- be more careful.

Removing her hands from her face, Feyre held the stone between her thumb and index finger, lifting it up to the light. The stone had an almost imperceptible glow to it- it reflected some light, though not enough to be called shiny; however, looking at it up close, the dark blackness of it's rock seemed all-consuming and impenetrable.

 _No. Now was not the time to play it safe_ , Feyre thought.

She had been undercover at the Spring Court for months, and still she hadn't learned anything of interest. Now, with two strange fae males acting as delegates for a queen of an unknown land, there was finally something happening here, in the Spring Court. Normally, Tamlin disappeared for secret "meetings," and there was no way for Feyre to learn what he was planning. This was her first opportunity to actually become involved.

No, Feyre was done playing it safe.

She took a deep breath and steeled herself with resolve for what was to come. She lifted the stone once more and released the breath. She still knew nothing about the rock that had mysteriously appeared in those guest chambers. _What it was... where it came from... what it did... if there were others like it..._

The stone seemed to pulse along with her unanswered questions. This was way bigger than just her.

Feyre sighed and sat up. Setting the stone down on a nearby pillow, and pushing the unfinished history book across the bed, she reached for the pen and paper.


	10. PART 8: RHYSAND

**PART VIII: RHYSAND**

 _**BACK TO PRESENT TIME..._

 _PART VIII_

The night sky was as beautiful as ever- the stars shining and the city below teeming with life- almost as vibrant as before the attack. The High Lord of the Night court stood above it all, a single figure outlined in glowing light from a fireplace in the room behind him. His body was absolutely still, except for the brief expansion of his chest breathing in the crisp night air. Though he usually found the action clarifying, tonight, his brain was too preoccupied to register the effect.

The stillness of the scene was broken when the figure's hand moved behind his back and reappeared with a single piece of paper. He shifted his weight and unfolded the sheet with an extreme gentleness uncharacteristic to regular paper folding. He glanced down at the paper and recited the words without reading them. He had memorized the note by the third read-through. He clenched his eyes and took in another breath, her bold slanted scrawl appearing across his inner eyelid.

Rhysand sent a small tug down their bond, and was relieved to receive one in immediate response. He longed to hear her voice, to hold her in his arms and speak to her directly- but unless the other person was practically screaming down the line, the distance between the two courts made it hard to decipher anything besides emotions. Therefore, they relied on winnowed notes. After almost three months of inactivity- or, undetectable activity- something had finally happened. Feyre was finally in a position to gather intel- and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to winnow over there, bring Tamlin and his frivolous court to their knees, and scoop up Feyre to bring her home- among other things.

Rhysand opened his eyes and continued to examine the skyline. Whatever was about to go down at the Spring Court was big- mystical objects he'd never encountered and lands he'd never heard of.

Immediately after reading her note, he'd called upon Amren. Being much older than everyone in his court, maybe she knew something about this stone. Or maybe, the Book of Breathings knew something. The book. It'd been three months since the night court-most of the night court- escaped from the encounter in Hybern. It'd been three months since Rhysand stole the two halves of the book from the king, when he thought he had them in his possession.

Three months for the king of Hybern to make a move- and nothing had happened. Azriel's spies had yet to find anything, and as time passed, the shadowsinger had begun to push even harder. Rhysand was lucky if he saw his shadowy friend once every two weeks, and even then, it was only for a brief period of time, during which the spymaster coldly informed him that there were no new developments. Rhysand could see the frustration building in his eyes and knew that soon, he'd have to put some limits on Azriel's activities. The Illyrian was beginning to approach a line of sorts- they all were.

Mor had been spending more and more time in the Court of Nightmares, overseeing the nobles, and listening for information. Rhysand knew how much she hated it there, and his heart ached a little bit whenever she left. Afterall, it was he who had pushed her into becoming more involved there. After he informed them that they would not be immediately extracting their High Lady, it had taken her two weeks to speak to him. She spent much of those weeks in the Court of Nightmares, subjecting herself to her family's cruelty; during which time, she developed the notion that her presence there might lead to a new informant, or some intel- any intel was welcome at this point.

For one of the first times in history, especially since his reign, the Night Court was in the dark. Subject to chance and the approaching unknown, Rhysand was no longer in control, and it pissed him off. It also scared the hell out of him.

He sensed someone enter the room behind him, and turned away from the balcony. Standing by the long dining table, her arms crossed against her chest, was Amren. Tonight, her accessory of choice was a large necklace of glowing rubies, all the size of her eyeballs, and a pair of matching dangling earrings. The ensemble would have looked gaudy on anyone else. Her silver eyes followed Rhysand with her typical canny observation as he walked across the room.

"I contacted Morrigan and Cassian, but Cassian said he had things to attend to and would not be coming."

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, but Amren glared at him as if willing him to contradict her statement.

It was no surprise that Cassian wouldn't be coming. Azriel and Morrigan weren't the only ones to throw themselves into their work. Cassian had spent the last two months travelling between Illyrian camps; overseeing the training of the ranks- specifically the training of the girls.

After they escaped from Hybern, both Cassian and Az had reached a healer almost immediately. Az's wings had recovered almost perfectly, but Cassian's wounds were much worse. He'd worn bandages for over three weeks, an entire week longer than was typically necessary. Afterwards, the healer had instructed Cassian to rest his wings often and exercise them sparingly to slowly build up strength. As far as the high lord knew, he had yet to try them out. Rhysand suspected that the delay was due not to the inability to test them, but rather, the fear that they might not work properly. Any Illyrian fighter would rather die than lose his wings, and once again, Rhys's heart ached for his friend.

Because Cassian was not using his wings, he relied completely on transportation from others. But the proud male refused to ask for it. Of course he wouldn't be coming.

Rhysand gestured to the parlor-portion of the room, and he sat down in a large arm-chair as Amren perched on the armrest of the couch.

"I'll reiterate when Mor gets here, but for now, I'm going to start." He waited for Amren to nod her consent before continuing.

"Feyre sent word from the Spring Court. Among other things, she's stumbled across a magical object that I've never heard of." He made a circle with his fingers, completely engrossed in his visualization.

"She described it as a small black stone- made of some type of obsidian, but possessing other strange attributes such as-"

"Such as a cold, other-worldy presence that radiates power?" She interjected. Rhys stopped and met her eyes.

"Yes. How-" But before he could finish, Amren had reached into her pocket and tossed him a small black object. Rhysand caught the object; his body jerked upright from the wave of power that followed. A moment later, his stiffened muscles relaxed, and he was able to better examine the stone. It was exactly as Feyre described, and to his ongoing disappointment, was nothing like he had ever seen.

"How-" He started.

"It fell out of the sky yesterday," she stated with her usual bluntness.

Rhysand looked up and met her eyes.

She continued, as if reading his mind. "I've never encountered anything like it- it's not from my world. I've spent the past two days researching in the Book of Breathings, and there's nothing mentioned that resembles it either."

She spoke as if leading up to a point, and a moment of silence later she stated, as if it were obvious, "I think it's from another dimension."

Rhysand leaned back in his chair and lifted his hand in the air, considering the strange stone. "Two stones from a different dimension" he mused.

At that moment, Morrigan walked into room, having recently winnowed onto the outside steep. She was dressed in her finery, but Rhysand knew she would never enter the Court of Nightmares without a dagger strapped to her body somewhere. Wherever it was, it was invisible to his eye as she approached the parlor area.

"I managed to get ahold of Azriel," she opened. "He should be here any minute."

She slid into the seat across from Rhysand, adjacent to where Amren perched. Rhysand couldn't help but notice the grim set to her mouth.

"How are things in Hewn City?" He asked.

Her shoulders appeared to curve slightly inward. "We might have a problem, but it's in its early stages." She seemed eager to continue, but hesitated when she looked at Amren.

"Any news on Feyre's end?" she asked.

Rhysand ran his hand through his hair. "Actually, on both our ends."

Her interest was clearly piqued. She narrowed her eyes slightly and opened her mouth to start the questions, but true to her word, not a minute after she arrived, Azriel strode purposefully into the room. The spymaster walked right past the cushioned seats and took residency by the hearth, leaning against the mantle where he remained shrouded in shadow.

Mor followed his movements until he stopped, still not completely relaxed. _Ready to leave at a moment's notice_ thought Rhys when he looked at his friend. Once Az had settled, everyone seemed to look towards the empty seat by Morrigan, and Rhysand knew that they were all thinking of Cassian. He expelled a small breath.

"All right, now that everyone's here..." They all turned to him, and he flinched at the wrongness of the words.

Picking an invisible piece of lint off his shirt, the high lord moved to the edge of his chair, so he could sit taller. He held the stone in the air for everyone to see. The light from the fireplace cast shadows across the room, and the stone seemed to reflect and absorb the light at the same time. Once again, Rhysand was in slight awe of its other-worldliness.

He quickly paraphrased Feyre's note (which meant excluding a lot of not-so-innocent post-scripts) and passed the stone around the circle.

"Feyre thinks that these stones may have come from the same land" he looked to Amren. "- or dimension, as this Queen who is apparently coming to visit the Spring Court. She also said that this Queen's delegates appear to be high fae, but possess slightly different attributes than us. As far as she can tell, the differences are only external, but she isn't certain. From the information she's already extracted, we can infer that their queen's magic may resemble that of the night courts'. On that note, so may the soldiers'... if they possess any."

Rhysand paused for any dissent, but everyone remained quiet, lost somewhere in his or her own contemplation.

He cleared his throat and turned to Azriel. "I know that Tamlin's territory has been impermeable since Feyre left, but I want eyes in the Spring Court as soon as possible." He paused for a moment. "-as well as the surrounding courts. I have no doubt that Beron, Tarquin, and probably Kallias will be hearing of this very shortly. We aren't the only court with spies around Tamlin, but I have no doubt that we're the first to be hearing of this."

He made eye contact with his friend. "...and I want to keep it that way." The spymaster merely nodded in acknowledgement.

Rhys turned back to address the general group. "We've had three months of silence from Hybern, and now that something is finally happening at the Spring Court _(everyone was already aware that Tamlin conducted his business outside of their High Lady's accessibility)_ , things are about to get very busy, or very dangerous for Feyre... probably both." The entire room suddenly felt heavier, and it showed on everyone's face.

"- so we have to stay vigilant. We need to be prepared to face new, unpredictable forces, and to not depend completely on Feyre's intel."

Everyone nodded in agreement, and Rhysand decided that the silence from his inner-circle was beginning to bother him. Her turned to Morrigan.

"You said you had news from Hewn City." It was both a statement and a question.

She cleared her throat and crossed her legs, leaning into the back of the sofa. "There's been some building unrest in the court. Many of the courtier families are pushing for support for Hybern."

They watched her intently, waiting for her to elaborate. "They miss the old ways," she continued. "Before you became high lord, and the noble families had more power..." She hesitated. "Specifically when they had power over humans."

Something dark unfurled in Rhysand's stomach, but Azriel was the first to respond. "You mean when they had human slaves." he retorted. His voice sounded just as disgusted as Rhysand felt.

Mor merely nodded. Amren looked impassive. He'd never heard her express any particular opinion on slavery- human or faery, but part of him thought that she secretly despised it. He didn't think that anyone could spend any amount of time in prison, especially not the number of lifetimes she had, without finding the idea of owning and controlling a slave revolting.

"Who is heading this campaign?" he asked. Mor gave him a pointed look, and the darkness inside him grew a little. He cursed under his breath. _"Keir"_ Of course her father would be in the lead of such a sickening movement.

"It hasn't reached fruition yet?" He continued.

"No," she replied. "But I suspect it won't be long. He's gained quite the following." Her face had paled almost imperceptibly since the conversation started, and Rhysand clenched his fists in anger towards the rat-bastards who still had such an effect on her.

All she had to do was give him the word, and he'd be down there in a heartbeat to slaughter them all, no matter the message it sent. Though he had offered many times, she had yet to express any desire, and he had begun to wonder if it was just the compassion in her heart or some unrelinquished hope that kept her from consenting.

Slowly unclenching his hands, he sighed and stood up from his chair. Everyone else followed suit.

"We'll take care of it soon. Right now, our main priority is the Spring Court and finding out as much as we can about this queen and these stones." His gaze flicked between his inner-circle.

He turned to Amren, but she took his words right from his mouth. "There's nothing in The Book, so we might begin to consider other ancient sources." She was referring to The Prison. "I'll make a list of possible informants."

Rhysand nodded his consent, and his second had already begun to walk away when he turned to the rest of the circle.

"I want everyone back here in two days." He looked back at the empty seat and made eye contact with Azriel. "And I mean _everyone._ I don't care if you have to drag him by his ankles, make sure he's here."

The high lord met their eyes once more before turning away to go about his own work. "What about Feyre's sisters?" Mor quickly interjected.

Rhysand didn't bother to turn his head or change the momentum of his walking to answer the question. "I'm working on it," he replied.

And with that, the High Lord of the Night Court jumped off the balcony; free-falling in the cool night air for a few seconds, before winnowing away.


	11. PART 9: AELIN

**PART IX: AELIN**

The only sound in the hallway was the slight swish of battle gear and the loud, intruding clanking of her iron chains. She shuffled her feet and tried to crane her neck to see her surroundings, but, as usual, her vision was blocked by her guards, and her movements restricted by the iron collars around her neck, wrists, and ankles.

She was currently surrounded by the six- as always- incredibly handsome fae males who escorted her to and from her sessions with Cairn. Not that they needed all six to carry her afterwards.

They kept her in isolation, though she knew she wasn't the only one down in these dungeons, because every once in awhile, if she listened hard enough, she would hear the faint, distant sound of someone else screaming out in pain. They often sounded so agonized that she didn't think she'd heard anything that could rival it- except for maybe her own.

She continued to scan between her guards as they walked down the hall. She saw glimpses here and there of doors, or iron bars that might belong to a cell, but for the most part, all she could see was the cold, unforgiving gray of stone.

They reached the turn which signified the last forty steps before they reached the torture cell. Cairn's playroom, she began to call it. Aelin purposefully slowed her steps and watched her guards for a reaction. None of them showed any indication of noticing, but then Pushy shoved her forward, causing her to stumble a little before glaring at him and speeding up.

Pushy- that's what she called the guard who stood in the back. Despite her continuous attempts at making conversation, none of the six fae males had deemed her presence worthy enough to constitute speaking, so she didn't know any of their names and had to come up with on her own.

Pushy was Pushy because of precisely that- he liked to shove her forward when she slowed- and since the formation never changed, he always brought up the rear of their little party. She would slow, he would push, she would growl at him, and then they'd all continue on their merry way. They had a real dynamic going.

The two males on her right were Popcicle and Flats. The first because his hair was white, like ice, and he was very tall and his body was cut a little straighter than others, reminding her of a wooden stick. The second, because the few times that she had heard his speak- not addressing her of course- his voice reminded her of a flat note on the pianoforte. Those two were the calmest, and seemed to handle her antics with the most patience.

The guard in front, who lead the group, was called Stiffers. It seemed to her that someone has shoved a rod up his ass and through his spine, because he always stood perfectly straight- his shoulders never leaving their height. She often thought that he must be extremely uncomfortable- always standing so tall. However, he was the best at ignoring her, and though she found it rather annoying, she also couldn't help but admire his persistence.

The fifth guard on the left- closest to Stiffers- was an incredible pushover. From what she'd seen, he loved to follow orders, and would jump at every opportunity to kiss someone else's ass. She didn't think he had the backbone to refuse another soldier, and for that reason, she called him Sergeant Skippy. She turned her eyes to his back and smiled to herself. He was about a head smaller than the rest of them, and every time she looked at him, she imagined him skipping around, trying to reach the same height as all of his comrades. Her smile widened and she had to work hard to suppress a giggle.

As they reached the end of the corridor, Aelin was yanked forward by one of the several chains that restrained her body. She turned to the sixth and final guard, and he sneered at her, his hand tightening around the chain. She smiled even bigger, relishing the anger that flashed in his eyes. This guard was by far the least patient of the group- temperamental even, and was the only one that she could get a rise out of. It didn't take much to get him to growl or sometimes, yell at her during the short trip. His name was Tweety.

They stopped at the door, and Aelin jerked her arm away from Tweety. Stiffers knocked twice on the metal jamb, and it swung open. Standing on the other side was the doorman, Casserole. She gave him this name solely because his hair, long auburn and curly, reminded him of that of a young boy who worked with her in the kitchens of Mistward. Aelin shuddered and clenched her fists, remembering that somewhere in these dungeons, Luca and Emrys were being held captive- standing at the ready to be used against her.

...

After she sent the wyrdkeys away, and Maeve had finished screaming at everyone who crossed her path, Aelin was taken to the throne room. Just moments later, a pair of guards rushed in, dragging a young boy with curly auburn hair behind them. _Luca_. Aelin remembered the pit that dropped in her stomach, and the way that the air was shoved out of her lungs like a physical blow.

The guards carried him into the room and situated him across from Aelin and her own guards, so that they were facing each other. She immediately began assessing him. He looked no different than when she first saw him; it were as if he had just been fetched from the kitchens.

The large doors to the throne room flew open, and Maeve stormed in, Cairn in tow. The pit grew heavier. The Queen moved across the room and onto the dais, where she stood by her throne, obviously too incensed to sit. She began lecturing Aelin on her stupidity and threatened to make her life even worse, but the niece was listening. She was in a distant place, focusing all of her attention on getting Luca away.

Maeve stopped talking and Aelin looked up and met eyes with the Queen, who was staring down at her intently. Then, she smiled- the small action surprisingly disturbing- and motioned toward the bottom of the dias.

"Cairn," she spoke with a lethal calmness. To Aelin's horror, the two guards holding Luca began dragging him to the Queen's feet, and a small battle axe materialized in Cairn's hands. She began thrashing against the two fae holding her, panic building in her throat and behind her eyes.

The small boy finally noticed the object in Cairn's hand and began resisting his captors as well. His small, lithe figure looked simply pathetic against the powerful males holding him, and his physical assaults offered no hindrance.

The guards pushed him to the ground and lifted his arm onto the dais, spreading his hand out onto the surface. Cairn began moving forward, and before Aelin could process the situation, a scream erupted from her throat. "No! Please!" She completely bypassed the snarky name-calling and was on the verge of begging, her eyes settled on Luca's small right hand.

Maeve held up her hand, and Cairn stopped, turning to his Queen with a look of annoyance. Maeve considered the girl across the room with a quiet cunning, her hand still raised.

"And what would you give me in return? - for not cutting off this lowly boy's hand?"

Aelin felt the tears pressing harder and gulped down the thickness in her throat.

Maeve watched her struggle for a moment and continued, her voice slightly quieter, but laced in a vicious cruelty. "Would you give me the keys, Aelin?"

"Would you return me the ring that you stole?"

The Queen watched the girl's face for a reaction and lowered her voice to a bare whisper, dripping in venom. "Would you take the blood oath to save this boy and the old man?"

Aelin's eyes jerked to her aunt's. _She had Emrys as well._ Bile rose in her throat, and the tears finally began to slip as she finally turned her head away from the queen. There was nothing she could offer.

Maeve straightened. "You have nothing. You are nothing." She dropped her hand, and Cairn resumed his movement. "I hope that this will serve as a reminder of that."

The fae male arrived above the small boy and crouched down, a small smile tugging at his lips. He lifted the battle axe and Luca jerked backwards. For the first time, Aelin could hear his barely suppressed whimpering.

The tears began to stream down her face, and she struggled to contain her panic. Maeve clenched her hand into a raised fist, and a flash of light gleamed off the blade as it fell. A blood-curdling scream erupted from Aelin's throat, and she threw herself forward. The sound of metal on stone shattered the room.

Her eyes bore into Luca's back, his shoulders bouncing up and down as he began to cry outwardly. The guards started dragging him backwards on his knees- his body too shaken to process the function of walking. Now that the fae males were no longer blocking her view, Aelin could see the small axe sitting on the dias, and the thin white mark that it had made- etched into the stone just a mere inch away from where Luca's fingers had been.

Relief crashed into Aelin, and she forcibly expelled the small breath that had been trapped in her lungs. The pressure in her throat bubbled up into hysteria, and soon her whole body was wracked with sobs. Maeve had been bluffing... this time.

She looked up from the white line on the stone, her vision blurred from the still-rapidly-falling tears. The Queen considered her niece in a calculating manner akin to that of merchant who was cheated on his produce. She examined the girl as if searching for something that had been promised, but was yet to be found. The Queen's eyes cleared, and the contemplative look changed to darkness.

She clicked her tongue. "How pathetic,"

She turned to the guards holding Luca and motioned them away, sparing just a single glance of utter disgust for the demi-fae boy.

"Not that I understand your emotional attachment to such a lowly species..."

Aelin, who had been following Luca's departure turned her eyes to her aunt.

"... but know, that should you ever disobey a direct order from any one of my soldiers, or pull another stunt like you did today-" her eyes darkened. "-their heads will be the first on the chopping block." She paused, and Aelin recognized it as an action of dramatic effect.

"- Of course, after Cairn has had some fun." The fae warrior's mouth turned into an eerie grin that just dripped with sadism.

Aelin's tears had finally ceased, and now her stomach was twisting into knots. She couldn't imagine Luca or Emrys suffering at the hands of Cairn anymore than she could witness Elide.

Maeve examined her a little longer, a small victory gleaming behind her eyes, before sending her away- back to her cells to start her prison routine.

...

Ever since Aelin could remember, every time she closed her eyes, she saw a slideshow of moments with her loved ones- their names constantly running in the back of her mind. That moment was now one of them- the brief flash of light on the edge of the blade as it fell, and the shattering moment of panic when she heard it strike the stone.

She shuddered and continued to clench her fists- this time in fury for her aunt, who had brought yet another person into her destiny of never ending pain.

The consistently squeaky metal door swung open, and Stiffers started to move forward, when Cairn entered the opposite end of the corridor. "Stop." He said.

Everyone's head turned to watch the fae male approach, his tunic stretching taut against his large muscles with every movement. His sole purpose may be to cause her pain, but Aelin could always appreciate the toned body and lethal grace that came with being an immortal fae warrior.

He stopped slightly farther away than conversational distance and fixed his chilling blue eyes on Aelin. "We won't be playing in there today." Even Cairn saw the metaphorical resemblance to a toy room.

"Her Majesty has asked that you be showcased in her throne room for today's executions, and then she has granted us the opportunity to explore some other games outside." _Showcased- like a prize dog._ Aelin shifted her weight onto one foot, appearing much more comfortable and nonchalant.

"Thank the gods. I've always thought that room was so outdated- the decor is much too soft and frilly for my taste." Everyone standing in the hall was well aware that the room was completely empty, and the only 'decor' to be found was Cairn and his tools.

Cairn's smile spoke volumes of horrible, unspeakable things, and Aelin was involuntarily reminded of Morath. "Oh, I'm sure you'll find this scenery much more dynamic."

"Anything's better than your ugly-ass face."

She sensed a slight movement to her left, and turned to see Tweety suppressing a smile- always quick to show emotion.

She cocked her head in her typical arrogance, and clicked her tongue, mimicking the action as one of Maeve's frequent mannerisms. "What's so funny, Tweety?" The fae male's face stiffened and he returned her a glare.

She pretended to act offended. "Were you laughing at Cairn's face?" She pouted her lips. "Hasn't anyone ever told you it's rude to make fun of those less fortunate than you?" A slight shift in weight told her that her guard was feeling a little nervous now.

"It's not his fault," she continued indignantly. "He can't help it if his mother was an adder."

Anger flashed in Cairn's eyes. He wasn't one for patience either. A brief cringe of fear betrayed Tweety's face, and Aelin beamed. Cairn turned on his heels and began walking back down the corridor- a clear order for them to follow.

She turned to the doorman, whom she never ceased to remind that his only purpose was opening doors. She frowned, putting as much disappointment into her voice as she could muster. "Sorry, Casserole. It looks like your services won't be needed today. Maybe if you ask him nicely, Sergeant Skippy will stand here and knock on the door a few times, so you can do your job." Casserole merely closed the doors without answering.

They began walking down the hallway, and she huffed, muttering under her breath. "Rude."

She leaned to the right, her mouth turned to Flats' ear like two conspirators. "Do you think he prefers wood doors or metal doors?" He glanced at her with his usual blank expression and turned away, as if saying "nice try."

She sighed outwardly. "You're right. Definitely wooden doors. Wooden doors are for grand entrances. Metal doors just scream 'i'm holding something valuable, come steal from me.'"

They continued on, and she pursed her lips contemplatively as the passed more cells on the way out of the dungeons. "Of course," she continued. "-wooden doors in a prison would be really tacky. You definitely need metal doors for that." She lapsed back into silence, turning over the problem.

They exited through the numerous security checks, most of which were just stationed guards. Aelin gave each of them a flirtatious wink, which, she was pleased to notice, left most of them looking a little uneasy.

When they passed the final guard, Popcicle yanked on the chain around and her neck and pulled the group to the side. The white-haired male pulled out a red square of fabric and began folding it. A blindfold. Aelin eyed him dangerously as he approached her and hastily tied the fabric around around her eyes. He stepped away just a few seconds later, having tied the blindfold as fast as possible. Apparently, Popcicle had drawn the short stick.

Another pull on her chains later, and they were walking. She heard the opening of a door and knew that they were officially inside the castle. It took just a few moments for Aelin to get her bearings and adjust to their new orientation. The Queen was a lot less intelligent than she looked if she thought for a second that the inability to see would prevent Aelin from mapping her whereabouts. The blindfold used to be one of Arobynn's favorite tools.

They continued through a series of hallways- their presence much louder with the absence of stone flooring. The sound of their steps on the tiled floor echoed in a way that meant tall ceilings. The air became lighter and fresher, so they were getting closer to the exterior of the palace. That theory was backed up by the passing warmth she felt on her chilly skin, no doubt from windows.

If her thinking was accurate, and Cairn's statement that they were going to throne room true, then they were approximately 360 feet from the main entrance- 360 feet from outside. To her annoyance, part of Aelin's chest tightened. She didn't know how long she'd been gone- how long it'd been since she agreed to let Maeve take her- how long it'd been since she'd been outside. She didn't let herself think about the other things- the other people, she'd also been deprived of.

Her suspicions were confirmed just seconds later, when they turned a corner, and she could hear the familiar deep rumbling of a crowd. She raised her eyebrows, exclusively for her own benefit, as her eyes were hidden.

So her presence wasn't just requested in the throne room, but in the throne room at court.

She was brought to an abrupt halt, presumably just outside the doors to the audience chamber. They didn't enter right away, so Aelin assumed that they were waiting for a cue of some sort. Though she hated to think of Maeve as sharing blood with her, apparently a love for theatrics ran in the family.

The chains around her wrists, feet, and neck remained slack, so she ascertained that it might be a while before they were called in. She schooled her features into the same expression of contemplation from earlier.

A moment later, she threw her hands up in the air, the irons rattling noisily.

"I give up!" she exclaimed, as if she had been thinking about it the entire walk down. "I can see the value in both metal doors and wooden doors." She shook her head in disbelief, like the question had been eating at her brain.

Tweety leaned his mouth to her ear. "Be quiet," he grumbled. Aelin had a retort on her lips and a glob of spit building in the back of her throat, when the males around her suddenly tensed.

The doors creaked open, and they began to lead her into the room. From what she could tell, the room had gone completely silent at her entrance. Aelin immediately smiled to herself, hoping it looked as chillingly devious as she had been told.

They took her across the throne room and up to the dais where she was forced to sit on the stairs. Aelin knew that if they took the blindfold off, she would be sitting at the feet of her aunt, chained like a dog.

She purposefully yawned, and a second later the blindfold was ripped away. She fought the instinct to flinch back from the sudden light, and instead, squinted her eyes until they adjusted.

The throne room looked the same as the last time she'd been here- except, this time, the middle was occupied by hundreds of courtesans. Though her magic was mostly depleted, Aelin still had her basic fae senses, which she sent out into the crowd. Her senses told her that everyone in the room was full-blooded fae, except for herself and a small grouping of people in the corner. And lo-and-behold, sitting a little behind her, but much higher on a throne of stone, was Queen Maeve.

She was wearing another dress of all black, this one much more lacy and exquisite than the last time she'd seen her. Her deep black hair was braided intricately into a wreath around her head. The red of her lips contrasted boldly with her creamy pale skin.

In addition to her partially-overwhelming appearance, the Queen emanated a powerful darkness and nefarious cunning that cut to the bone. The glint of cruelty in her dark eyes put a spark of uneasiness in everyone. If she wasn't such a heinous bitch, Aelin might have admitted that her presence spoke of a great immortal strength fit for her title.

She only glanced at her aunt briefly, before turning back to the crowd. Every set of eyes was fixed on her, and she wondered how long it would take for the queen to be bothered by it. Aelin began to roll her shoulders and stretch casually, looking like she was making herself comfortable.

Fae males surrounded the perimeter of the room- four of them standing mere feet away from the queen's throne. She recognized two of them from that day on the beach. Varik and Heiron. The latter was standing directly between herself and Maeve.

Aelin's six guards branched off, Sergeant Skippy handing the end of her irons to Heiron. After her guards had situated themselves throughout the room, the fae male handed the chains to Maeve, who took great pleasure in giving them a firm tug which forced Aelin to lean backwards.

Aelin growled. She really was being treated as no more than an animal- and Maeve was holding her leash. The queen didn't bother to look down at Aelin, and instead, launched into her speech.

Normally Aelin would be straining her mind to collect every piece of information, but after hearing the first few sentences out of Maeve's mouth, she decided this audience would have little impact on anything. She paid little attention, not particularly caring about their court's petty politics. Instead, she began to gather visual information- analyzing and committing everyone's faces to memory. She knew from experience that even the smallest bits of information could eventually become of importance.

Her interest piqued slightly when she noticed that two of Maeve's common guards weren't present. She didn't tend to vary her fae-male positioning very often.

The atmosphere of the crowd shifted slightly, and she switched her attention, actually listening now. Maeve was talking about some unrest in parts of her territory- people who had held protests rallying against the massacre of the labor camps, Endovier and Calaculla. People who had been urging Doranelle to get involved- some even denouncing the Queen directly for her indifference.

"...These traitorous, so-called renegades," she drawled with an edge of distaste, "are nothing more than self-righteous emerging heretics who are looking to draw attention. We will not fuel this petty disruption with our eyes and ears." A slight rumble passed throughout the crowd, yet no one spoke loud enough to be singled out, lest the dark queen take offense.

Maeve waited a moment, tilting her head in slight amusement. The golden light from the afternoon sun sun shone through the windows. Whoever had built this ancient castle must have taken the sun's path into great consideration, as the windows were angled in a way that concentrated most of the light on the dais. The many jewels dangling by her ears and adorning her arms glinted in the light. The golden light contrasted with Maeve's shadowy disposition beautifully. She looked like a goddess.

The mumbling died down slightly, and she continued. "In regards to the unfortunate events circling the mortal labor camps... I assure you that I am not turning a blind eye to these injustices. We have invested several resources into further investigating these killings, and it will not come into further fruition. Know that our land's security is my greatest priority, and you have nothing to fear." Maeve spoke with vehemence, and the crowd quickly quieted. Aelin snorted from her place on the stairs. She felt hundreds of eyes shift their gaze.

Still, Maeve didn't acknowledge Aelin's presence. The queen crossed her legs, barely shifting the rest of her body on the throne. She smiled, again tugging slightly on Aelin's chains. Aelin curled her lips back in a snarl. If she kept this up, Aelin's neck would be rubbed raw by the time they finished. Maeve's only response was a slight glimmer of amusement in her eyes and the ghost of a smile.

"In regards to the offenders," she continued. "They have been tried for their crimes and sentenced accordingly." Aelin almost scoffed at the idea. There had been no trials. Any transgression under Maeve's rule was automatically considered an action of high treason.

At her mention of the protestors, Aelin saw movement from the back of the room. Several of the guards were now moving down the wide aisle, dragging a small cluster of people with them. The demi-fae that she'd sensed earlier.

There were five of them- all dressed in simple cloth tunics and dresses, and each thinner than the next. She didn't know if their gaunt faces were from a lack of food in their villages, or from whatever time they'd spent in Maeve's clutches. She suspected probably both. The five of them were lined up in front of the dais and pushed to their knees, just ten feet away from where Aelin sat, straining imperceptibly against her chains.

There were four men and one woman. Her eyes immediately fixed on two of the men- the two boys. They were so young, appearing no more than a year or two older than herself.

Her heart clenched- they were in the prime of their youth, with their entire lives ahead of them. She wanted to yell at them. To yell at them for wasting their lives in an effort too small to be considered a battle- but a battle nonetheless. A losing battle. She wanted to, but she couldn't. She knew what it was like to stand for a cause- even a losing one.

The two other men were approaching their forties- their bodies sculpted and calloused from years of manual labor. Aelin prayed to whatever gods might be listening that they weren't fathers.

She couldn't tell the age of the woman. At first glance she appeared to be in her mid-fifties- wrinkles just starting to accentuate her features. But even from her place on the dais, Aelin could see a fierceness in her expression that told of a fiery spirit intrinsic to youth.

There was no way that these were the instigators of these rebellions-if you could even call them rebellions. Aelin had no doubt that the real men and women behind the offenses were somewhere in the dungeons, wishing they were dead. These people before her were just participants- followers. Maybe even bystanders. And they knew it.

She could see it in the rebellion of their eyes and the strong set of their jaws. These were not beggars or prisoners. They were martyrs.

Maeve's voice boomed across the room. "You have been tried and convicted for treason against your queen. Your sentence... is death by execution." She paused, the room enveloped in silence. During this time, five guards had lined up behind the prisoners- each with a bow and arrow.

Aelin bit back her disgust. It was a coward's execution to be killed from behind. She understood her aunt's reasoning- not giving them the option to face their death, but forcing them to spend their last moments looking at their queen. Nonetheless, she found it revolting.

"Do you have any last words?" She continued smoothly.

Their hands were all tied in front of themselves, but judging by the look on their faces, Aelin suspected that if they hadn't been restrained, the queen would have been looking at five very vulgar gestures.

The room remained silent, and she started to think that they weren't going to say anything. The woman was the first to turn. She met Aelin's eyes and bowed her head reverently. "Long live the True Queen of Terrasen." She spoke loudly, without a bit of quiver or a single sign of hesitation.

Aelin was rendered speechless. One by one, down the line, all five protesters followed suit, meeting her eyes before bowing their heads- not to Maeve, but the dirty chained animal sitting below her. To Aelin.

A moment later, Maeve raised her delicate fist into the air, and the arrows flew. Their bodies thumped to the ground, but Aelin didn't hear it. There was a roaring in her ears. Had these so-called rebellions really been about the massacres in the mortal labor camps, or something else entirely? Her thoughts flashed back to the look of reverence on the woman's face. On all their faces. _The True Queen,_ she'd said.

Perhaps the offense hadn't been denouncing the Queen of Doranelle, but displaying support for the Queen of Terrasen. Aelin shuddered at the enormity of this thought. Immediately, she began to think back. What could she have done to garner such unyielding loyalty- to a people she'd never met before?

Her thoughts flashed to back to when she'd defended Mistward. But even then, those events would have had little immediate impact on the outer villages from which these people had come. Aelin began to wonder what sort of stories were being spread about the long lost Queen of Terrasen.

Many of the fae warriors stationed around the room had stiffened their stance after the prisoners' words. Aelin looked up at Maeve, a delicate flare of her nostrils the only sign of whatever fury must've been raging underneath her skin. She turned back to the bodies of the prisoners and stopped listening once again.

Sometime during her following speech, no doubt about the strength of Doranelle and the greatness of their queen, Maeve dismissed the throne room, and the hundreds of courtesans began to file out. No one dared to even risk a glance at Aelin as they waded through the large doors. No one touched the bodies.

Once the room was empty, save for the guards and herself, Maeve lifted her elbow onto the arm of her throne and began to impatiently tap her fingernails. The hollow sound of her immaculate fingers against the cold stone of her chair was harrowing.

She gave a smile huff, as if reaching some resolution, and her hand stilled. Still not having acknowledged her niece's presence, she called out loudly with a single name. "Cairn."

Almost immediately, as if he had been waiting outside the door, listening for her command, he entered the hall. She dropped Aelin's iron chains back into Heiron's awaiting hands. The previously taut chain relaxed, and no longer being yanked backwards, the collar around Aelin's neck fell into a natural position on her soldiers. She fought back a sigh of relief.

Cairn stopped in the middle of the room, seemingly awaiting further instructions. Apparently no clarification was needed, because less than a moment later, she was once again surrounded by her six guards, Stiffers graciously accepting the chains from Heiron. Everyone was handed their respective portions of her irons, and they quickly began moving away from the dais. The moment they began walking, Cairn turned his back and headed back out the large doors, clearing expecting them to follow.

Almost halfway across the room, Aelin turned her head to give a snarky comment, but before she could even open her mouth, Pushy shoved her forward. She didn't let herself stumble from the awkward configuration of facing backward while your feet moved forward. Instead she mentally shrugged and continued forward, saving her insult in the back of her mind for later use.

As soon as they were out of the room- trailing Cairn to whatever was next on their agenda, the heavy wooden doors slammed shut, silencing the entire hallway. Maybe even the entire castle.


	12. PART 10: CAIRN & AELIN

**PART X: CAIRN & AELIN**

Two tables stood in the middle of a green meadow, shrouded in shadow by two figures. One stood absolutely still among the swaying grass, intently considering his surroundings. And the other laid upon the taller table, her limbs pulled taut and anchored to the to corners.

 _This_ was Cairn's idea of an 'outside game.'

They played many games during their playdates, as Cairn liked to call them. Some, he admitted, more creative than others. He liked to experiment with a variety of tools and mediums and elements, ranging from tubs of water to hallucinogenic poisons to iron darts.

Contrary to popular belief, the whip was not his favorite tool. It wasn't even his second or third or fifth or twenty-second favorite tool. In fact, were it not for the symbolism behind the whip in regards to his victim, he would never deem to use it. He thought that it took too much effort on his part. And Cairn was a firm believer that he shouldn't be sweating more than his playmate.

Cairn did, however, find extensive amusement in using fire and heat- something about the irony of using the element against the once great flame-bringer.

However, nothing brought him more joy or got his creative juices flowing quite like the good 'ole knife and bare back.

Cairn considered himself quite the artist, even though he never allowed anyone else to his art. It was personal to him, and the one thing that brought him real peace. He loved it. And today was special. Today was landscape day.

Even after the girl had been chained to the corners of the table, her arms and legs outstretched, and the rest of her guards ordered away, Cairn made no move to begin. He stood in silent contemplation, his eyes staring out across the scenery, and his hands gently hovering over his belt of knives spread out on a lower side table. He wasn't one to just jump into his work. He needed time to slip into his artistic calm- to create an image in his head before he transferred it onto his canvas. A slight breeze rustled through the grass, tousling his and her hair as they both slipped into their stone-faced killing graces.

The waterfall, visible from the throne room, roared in the distance. He closed his eyes and breathed in the warm air, the many elements from his environment piecing together into a single image. He spent another minute like that, taking deep breaths and savoring the different scents around him, before he let loose a pleasant sigh and opened his eyes. His lips curled into a boisterous grin, and he gently unsheathed a small blade from his kit, spinning it in his hand as he stalked forward to his canvas. He took note of his peaceful surroundings once more. And then he started to paint.

...

In the beginning Aelin didn't feel anything. She spent the minutes up until the first cut of the knife preparing herself- slipping into a mental calm. Eventually, the pain would become too much to shield, so rather than letting it all crash into her at once, she gradually let herself feel. Bit by bit, she let herself feel the knife strokes, until she was experiencing all of it.

Today she was in her fae form, so it wasn't as bad. Not that it was less painful, but when they made her shift back to human, her wounds couldn't heal immediately, so she was in constant pain, versus the often short bursts that came from being in her other form.

Also, they were outside. She didn't know how long it'd been since she'd been outdoors- since she'd felt the sun.

She hated that her heart squeezed with gratitude for something as simple as seeing the sun.

When she wasn't playing with Cairn, she was thrown into a solitary cell so dark, that whenever she woke up, she thought she had gone blind. She knew that it was just another tactic to wear her down-to make her break.

But as of now, Aelin was nowhere near breaking.

However, she was only a few years away from settling, and after years and years- decades, or even centuries- of this torture, she wasn't so sure she could advocate for herself. Who knew what a lifetime of being at Cairn's mercy would do to her. Maybe she would eventually break. Maybe she would completely lose herself- lose the will to fight. Maybe someday she would find herself grovelling at the feet of the Queen of Doranelle- would finally give the bitch what she wanted.

Cairn's knife dug in once more, starting a new stroke, and even though a scream erupted from her throat, Aelin took great comfort in knowing that today was not that day.

Today was landscape day. She loosed another scream as he retraced one of his lines, driving the blade down to the bone- swirling and gouging from the top of her shoulder, across her back, and down the side of her right leg. Every inch of her body convulsed at the excruciating fire which ravaged down her spine.

Sometimes she was lucid enough, and his chosen area far enough from her head that she could see his work.

This would not be one of those days.

She felt the familiar itch of her wounds closing and knew that soon, he would be gouging the line once more, to keep up with her healing.

He made use of the entire back side of her body- marking every surface with what was no doubt a stunning depiction of the lush tree line and distant swirling waterfall which inspired him today. She imagined that he was incorporating her scars into the lines of the rushing water, and the texture of the trees.

His marks wouldn't leave new scars unless she was in her other form- and even then, they almost always sent a healer to clean her human body afterwards. Cairn liked a blank canvas. A few times, though, whether out of ignorance or neglect, she didn't know, a healer hadn't come, and there were several new additions across her body- remembrances from her time with Cairn.

She recalled the few times that a healer hadn't been called, and the anger that Maeve had displayed at having her personal property damaged. Of course, any masterful healer could get rid of the scars, but Aelin wasn't currently being extended that courtesy.

Her thoughts flicked to her six guards who had been ordered away, but were actually stationed around the treeline, watching Cairn work. Making sure that he didn't break any more rules.

There were rules of course. Rules that Cairn had gone through the pleasantries of explaining to her.

Maeve had instructed him not to do anything too permanent. No teeth pulling or limb breaking or extremity amputation. Not too much nerve damage either. The Heir of Brannon still needed to be functional in order to do the queen's bidding.

And he wasn't allowed to touch her stomach or her reproductive system.

Aelin continued to have nightmares about this request- imagining every increasingly horrible scenario. She found herself wondering how broken she'd have to be to allow Maeve to force her to bear child, and then hand him or her over. The thought made her sick to to her stomach.

Her dark thoughts were interrupted as he gouged another line, and a scream tore from her chest.

...

Her session with Cairn ended a few hours later, when she finally passed out from the pain. They only ever ended when she fell unconscious, so the length of time they spent together depended solely on Cairn and whatever twisted inspirational fetish he was feeling that day.

She was never awake for the trip back to her cell, so she always assumed that her guards simply carried her and her chains away.

...

When she regained consciousness, her eyes opened to utter blackness. Her throat clenched and her breath started to come faster. The scent of sulfur burned her nose, and she struggled to calm her rapidly beating heart. She pressed her hand to her chest and focused on her breathing. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

 _These are not the salt mines. And this is not Endovier._

Her heart finally calmed as she remembered where she was. She opened her eyes once more, frantically shifting her gaze to find purchase, to find any source of light- something to focus on. But there was nothing to see. She closed her eyelids, knowing that she would drive herself mad if she continued to stare into the black.

When she wasn't with Cairn, she was in here- alone, with only her thoughts and her pain for company.

They only opened the door to escort her to her sessions, or to let the healers in. Her meals, which she received twice a day, depending on her lucidity, were sent in through a small chute that didn't require the use of light. So when she wasn't being subjected to Cairn, she was being subjected to the darkness and her own equally dark memories.

She knew what her aunt was doing. That this was all just a mental game in the form of a testament to her days in Endovier.

But no matter how many times she prepared herself, she couldn't suppress the slight panic that bubbled up whenever she opened her eyes to the black.

When Maeve had told her that she was going to break her, she hadn't just meant physical torture, but mental torture as well. She planned to leash Aelin by wrecking her body, and throwing her into utter darkness until she couldn't handle it any longer- until she found herself begging to be let out.

Aelin knew that it wasn't the pain that would finally bend her to Maeve's will, but the hours spent in the darkness afterwards- the incomprehensible amount of time with just her thoughts and her ruined flesh.

She felt, more than saw, that her body was beginning to waste away- her unspent and suppressed magic becoming more and more agitated by the day.

She believed that her magic was directly related to her emotional inner mind, and every day that she spent in the chains, their iron properties forcing her flames further underneath her skin, was another day that she felt her brain start to roil with the building pressure. She wondered if her fire would be the thing to break her- if one day the pressure would become too much- if it would build and build until her body could no longer contain it- if one day, her power would just combust, taking her mind with it.

Well, at least she had something to look forward to.

Until then, she would spend her days in a continuous routine of torture and darkness- an endless cycle of pain.

At least, that's what she'd thought before now. Today, she was taken to the throne room, not to witness the execution of prisoners, but for the prisoners to witness her. Maeve wanted the world to see that Aelin Galathynius had finally been leashed- that Mala's flame was under _her_ control. And with the hundreds of courtesans present this morning, word would spread fast.

Aelin thought once more of the look on the prisoners' faces. The defiance in their eyes, even as they faced death.

Something was going on in the outskirts of Doranelle. Somewhere, her name was being passed around. Somewhere, dangerous things were being said. And somehow, though she imagined it wasn't very difficult, the Queen was intercepting it. And if today's events were any indication, whatever Maeve was hearing, she was not happy about it.

Aelin sucked in a breath as she became aware of the fierce itching along her back. Her wounds were healing. Because she had been in her fae form yesterday- she assumed it had been yesterday, though she could never be sure- her injuries would repair on their own. There would be no healer.

She was still in her fae form, and after she caught her breath from her almost panic attack, she began breathing through her mouth. The stench of her cell attacked her senses like a physical blow- a combination of the mold and mildew from damp stone and the lone bucket they had provided for her to relieve herself. She cringed as she twisted her body into a sitting position, and her foot brushed against her food tray from her last meal.

An animal in a cage. That's what she'd been reduced to. For not nearly the first time, she cursed her bitch-of-an-aunt, and made yet another mental note to kill her.

She heard approaching footsteps in the hall and scrambled up as the door to her cell creaked opened.

Blinded by the flood of light, she lifted her hand to shield her eyes. _Playtime_. Her guards escorted her from her cell, and she was surprised when they turned to leave the dungeons- just like the day before. _Was her attendance in the throne room going to be a daily event now?_

This time they didn't bother with the blindfold. She felt unreasonably smug to learn that all of the details she'd assumed on the way to the throne room were correct.

Just a few minutes outside of the dungeons, Aelin concluded that Maeve was gone.

She felt her absence in the unusually relaxed state of her guards and the small glimpses she caught of the people they passed in the halls. Everyone's shoulders appeared lighter, and their gaits more casual, as if the queen's absence alone made it easier to breath.

Sure enough, when they entered the audience chamber, Maeve's throne was empty. Aelin wondered only briefly what had drawn the queen away. She was probably off somewhere, preaching to the public of her valiant efforts to stop the massacres in the labor camps, and how lucky everyone should feel to have such an amazing monarch on their throne.

Though the stone chair was empty, the rest of the room was not. Just like the day before, hundreds of fae stood in front of the dais, chatting amongst themselves. If they weren't here to attend court, then there were here as witnesses. Aelin's stomach roiled at the thought of watching more executions. Her unspent magic turned in her veins, and her temple began to throb. _Gods-damned iron shackles_ , she thought.

Her guards pulled her to the front of the room, and pushed her down onto the stairs, where she sat like the chained animal she was. Because Maeve was not here, three of her guards remained by her side to hold her chains- Flats, Popcicle, and Tweety. The other three separated, stationing themselves around the room.

Aelin rethought Maeve's reasoning for being absent when she saw that there were fewer guards in the throne room than usual. Including her own six, there were only four more fae males stationed around the perimeter. Three more appeared from the crowd, dragging today's prisoners. That made a total of thirteen fae males- none of them bloodsworn. Whatever Maeve was doing must've required a lot of soldiers for them to be under-staffed like this. Aelin immediately began hoping that whatever she was doing didn't include the pillaging of small farming communities for information on treasonous citizens.

Aelin was horrified to see that the three guards weren't dragging a handful of prisoners, but what appeared to be an entire family of peasants. Farmers from the look of it. In addition to a man and woman, there were four children. The mother held an infant child in her left arm, a small girl of around nine clutching her right hand. Behind her skirts, a little boy's head poked out, his small hand grasping at the fabric of her simple dress. The fourth and eldest child, an adolescent boy only a year or two younger Aelin stood next to their father, the look of death blazing in his eyes. His hand gripped his father's arm, and she knew that he was prepared to fight their way out.

The man he held on to- whose hair was just beginning to show signs of graying and hands were calloused in a way that could only mean years of manual labor- was not. Instead, his face was resigned, his eyes remorseful. He had already accepted his fate.

Two of the guards who had escorted the group into the room stepped forward. One of them made to grab the father's arm, but the eldest boy shouted a string of obscenities and tried to hold him back. Aelin's heart plummeted, the boy's look of defiance and desperation so familiar to her.

The father began pleading with his son, but the boy was unrelenting. Finally, the third guard, who until now had remained at the back, entered the scene, and jerked the boy away. The father was pulled forward, and the boy thrashed against the fae male as his arms were restrained.

Gripping one of the man's arms in each hand, the other two guards led him to the front of the room before throwing him onto his knees. Aelin flinched at the sound of his knees barking against the ground.

The woman's sobs, which up until this point had been silent, turned loud and ratcheting- the tears now streaming down her still-youthful face. The little boy was pressing his face against the back of her legs, and the girl was calling her father's name- confusion written across her delicate features. No doubt her parents had tried to explain these events to her prior, but what nine-year-old would ever be able to comprehend the execution of her father?

Aelin's fisted hands trembled in fury- in white hot rage towards the person who would force a family of children to watch their parent's death.

From behind one of the enormous pillars, another fae male stepped out from the shadows. A single blade shone in his hands as he stalked forward. _The executioner._ The father, kneeling in front of the dais stiffened, his skin blanching. His wife's sobs became louder, her body convulsing with the impact. Soon after, the infant in her arms was screeching as well.

Aelin's skin heated- the throbbing in her head increasing with each passing moment. She strained against her binds, and felt one of the males behind her tug the chain backward. That _bitch._ That _rutting bitch._

The audience in the room was silent and still, save for a few bodies shifting- either from discomfort, or for a better view.

The executioner was mere feet away, and the restrained son pushed even harder against his captor- letting loose a strain of curses that rivaled even Aelin's. Eventually, the guard shoved the boy to the floor, grinding his face into the stone. He continued to jerk a few more times, and the guard pulled his arm back, twisting it until the boy stopped moving. His bent arm looked on the verge of snapping.

The wife and baby continued to wail, their miserable cries echoing across the tall ceilings. The crowd remained absolutely silent- stoic even.

Aelin continued to shake with blinding anger, her fire burning throughout her veins. The executioner raised his blade, and the son let out a shout, the father closing his eyes.

Something snapped inside Aelin. She frantically threw herself, quickly delving down into her well and propelling herself forward. The heat under her skin intensified, shooting outward, and before any of the guards holding her chains could react, Aelin exploded, golden flames erupting from her body.

She heard the males behind her cry out, but it was quickly overshadowed by the panicked screaming of courtesans. By the time anyone thought to draw a weapon, or flee the audience chamber, she was already down the dais and across the room. The executioner had stopped his swing when Aelin exploded, and she immediately shot out her hand- the flames launching from her body and enveloping him in glorious heat. She watched the white of his eyes as he dropped to the ground.

The two guards holding the prisoner dropped his arms, unsheathing their own blades and running forward. Aelin threw up a wall of flames, halting their advance as she turned to face the three males rushing from behind. She dodged one of their swipes, and turned just in time to narrowly avoid the blade of another. She launched herself at the second attacker, grabbing his swinging arm and using its momentum to pull him to the ground. She swiped one of the daggers at his hip and shot up, swiping the blade across the face of another male. One down.

She ducked the swipe of the returning male, and drug the blade across the back of his calf on the way down, slicing his tendon. He dropped, and she used a round-house kick to knock him down further. He didn't move. That made two.

She turned back to the dais, where she noticed the guards who had been holding her irons. All three were sprawled on the stone. Two of them gasping and cradling limbs as their severe burns began the process of healing. She couldn't see any improvement in the seconds that she watched them, and the other wasn't moving at all, so she counted it as three more.

An arrow shot down from above, and she twisted, but not fast enough. It slammed into her shoulder, and she cursed, sending a large blast of fire up into the balconies. The archer screamed and dropped. Aelin yanked out the arrow, but the distraction cost her, and a moment later, she felt more searing pain as a sword sliced against her forearm. She spun around, the arrow in her hand outstretched, and smiled when it met muscle.

Her new attacker shouted, staggering back, and Aelin launched herself on top of him, gouging the arrow head into the side of his neck. He went down. She landed smoothly, and she couldn't help but let loose a delirious laugh. Even with her body and spirit severely weakened, all of her years of training with Arobynn, and the months she spent with Rowan came rushing back. She was in her element, and her breath had just begun the turn shallow, when another guard attacked.

She dispatched him with prowess, and after she watched him drop, her gaze flicked over to the prisoner. The eldest son had been released and was helping his father up off the ground. They met eyes, and she gave the boy a small nod. He returned the gesture, and she dropped to the floor, avoiding another attack. She snatched the sword out of one of the unconscious warrior's hands, and used it strike her attacker across the back, severing his spinal cord. When she looked back, the boy and his entire family were gone, lost among the screaming crowd of courtesans that surged toward the doors.

She was lucky that none of the fae males present were blood sworn, or possessed magic. She was even luckier to be in her fae form, because she wouldn't have gotten past the first guard is she were human.

Aelin turned away from the dais, and felt a small surge of panic when her power began to waver. Now that she'd used some of it, and exhausted part of her body, the iron in the chains was regaining control- her fire no longer threatening to explode from her veins.

She dropped her wall of fire previously blocking the rest of the room, and was met with the final five- no, four males. The thirteenth was missing, but Aelin didn't have time to dwell, as the others began to circle. The one farthest to the right was the first to launch himself. She dodged two of his swings, immediately twisting to avoid the sword of another.

Dropping to the ground, she swiped the feet out from underneath one of them, and rolled to the side as another charged her. As she jumped up, she grabbed ahold of his arm, and twisted it while forcing it downward and into the chest of the male she had just sent to the ground. The warriors landed on top of each other, and before she could go after the guard on the top, she was yanked backwards, hopping a few times to keep from falling to the ground.

She tried to turn around, but she was jerked even harder, her hands jumping to the collar around her neck. Her knees hit the ground, and she lifted her head to find the thirteenth guard gripping her chains. He shouted to the two males behind her, and one of them had just gripped her left arm, when she swung the right forward, gripped the taut chain that attached to her neck, and yanked it towards her.

The thirteenth guard leaned forward, tightening his pull against her neck and trying to regain his hold on the iron. She quickly let go, and the strength of his heaving sent him stumbling backwards. She rolled to the side, jerking the chain from his grip, and immediately swung it behind her in a horizontal arc.

She turned to see the momentum of the chain coil itself around the neck of one of the guards- the twin to her own collar. She wrenched the irons downward, and his hands were too busy clawing at his throat to catch his fall. He fell to the floor, his head bouncing off the ground, knocking him unconscious.

She realized her mistake when she tried to stand, and found that she was still restrained by the end of her chain which remained twisted around the fallen male. She scampered across the ground, all of her attention focused on getting to the end of the chain.

That was her second mistake. Her hand was a hairsbreadth away from the fallen male, when searing pain sliced into the back of her thigh. She faltered, and turned just in time to see the whites of Cairn's wild eyes as he pounced on her.

The force of his weight knocked the breath from her chest as they slammed into the floor. The knife he had thrown into the back of her leg dug in further, and she gasped as he dug his knees into her legs, his arms holding her wrists flat against the stone on either side of her head.

His grin was feral, and pure insanity sparked in his blue eyes as he took in the sight of her. She flicked her gaze behind him, where a small army of soldiers had gathered around. Apparently the frantic crowd of screaming people rushing out the doors had drawn some attention to the throne room.

Cairn's hand gripped her chin and forced her eyes back to his face. He tsked softly, as if scolding a small child. She bucked her body underneath his weight, but he removed the hand holding her chin and slammed her left leg flat to the ground, the dagger tearing through even more flesh. Aelin screamed, unable to hold it back.

He continued to analyze her, his weight cutting off the circulation to her limbs. He frowned slightly, though his eyes still glinted with amusement.

"What a mess you've made," he spoke softly, lifting his hand to caress a knife down the side of her face.

Frowning, he tsked again, and his blade stilled. "I hate to ruin such a pretty face."

She stiffened as he applied enough pressure to the dagger to draw blood at the base of her temple. He leaned forward, and soft as a lover's embrace whispered into her ear, "What do you say we skip today's normal activities and meet in my room for a different kind of fun...?"

Her back arched involuntarily from the chilling experience of air being blown into your ear. And before she could think otherwise, Aelin spat in his face, using his moment of distraction to swing forward the arm he wasn't holding down, and plunge a dagger into his right eye. He roared, reeling backwards, and she just had time to twist the hilt of the blade further, tearing through more of the flesh of his eye-socket, before he gripped her by her hair, and slammed her head into the ground.

Her head bounced, suddenly spinning, and her vision began darkening- pressing inward as a loud ringing filled her eardrums. She still hadn't oriented herself when Cairn yanked the dagger out of his eye and slammed it into the meat of her left arm; anchoring it to the ground, as he took her other arm in his hands, and broke her wrist in two, crushing the bones of her hand immediately afterward. An agonized scream tore from her throat.

Aelin thought she heard someone shout Cairn's name in warning, but the warrior took no notice. He yanked the dagger out of her arm, and raised it, prepared to inflict more serious damage, when he was yanked off of her.

Her chest constricted, quickly filling with air from the sudden release of the pressure, and she fought through a series of gasping and coughs, trying to ease the burning in her lungs.

There was more shouting, the ringing in her ears just starting to fade away. Her breath was almost under control, and in her mind, she knew that she was supposed to be doing something... Something. It may have included moving her body and leaving the room, but just a slight twist of her neck sent dizziness crashing into her.

Searing pain sliced through her body. Her left leg and arm felt as if they were on fire, and her stomach rolled with nausea. Her fingers brushed against a pool of warm liquid on the stone, and Aelin tried to lift her head to assess the damage.

Pain exploded in her skull, and she let out a gasp as she clenched her eyes shut, waiting for her vision to stop swimming. It must not have worked, because when she reopened her eyes, she was seeing double.

Cairn was still shouting at her, but a large group of soldiers surrounded him, yanking the thrashing fae male backwards mere inches at a time.

Her stomach jumped up her throat, and she frantically twisted her body to the side, where she vomited onto the floor. Immediately afterwards, she felt a series of hands lift her heaving body into the air.

She decided she didn't care anymore, and let her body hang limp as they carried her. She kept her eyes clenched shut for most of the trip, focusing on keeping her stomach at bay. The few times she did open her eyes, her head spun terribly, and she found herself wondering how Rowan could stand to fly at such great heights without losing consciousness.

Maybe it was different when you were a bird.

It seemed like only seconds later when they entered her cell. Immediately, Aelin wanted to beg them not to leave- to keep the door open so she could _see._ But she didn't have to. Aelin was just lucid enough to be surprised by the presence of a small cot in the middle of her stone room.

The fae males carrying her placed her on top, where she was finally able to look at something other than the ceiling. She didn't know if it was confusion from the concussive hit to her head, or reality, but she didn't recognize any of the soldiers standing in the room.

Once again, she tried to lift her head, but the overwhelming pressure and searing pain became too much. Her vision went dark, and she stopped seeing.

...

When Aelin awoke, the pain behind her eyes was gone, and her brain only felt a little foggy. She didn't know if her vision was corrected because she was back in complete darkness, but when she made to sit up, she wasn't overcome with dizziness, so she took it as a good sign.

She took a few deep breaths and pushed away from the wall she was laying against. She leaned across the floor of the stone room, feeling for a small cot. _Nothing._ Aelin sank back on her heels, the iron chains breaking the silence, and realized that there was no longer a gouging pain in the back of her thigh.

Her thoughts jumped to her right wrist and hand, which she grabbed in her left, but the bones were intact- healed. She stood up slowly and went through the physical evaluation of moving every part of her body, mentally checking for symptoms or signs of pain. Again, _nothing._ She felt perfectly fine- better even.

A healer must've been sent to repair her limbs. Even though she was in her fae form, her mediocre healing abilities were not quite adept for a series of shattered bones. Her breath caught, and her hand jumped to her back, sliding across her shoulder blades. She let out an involuntary sigh of relief. Her scars were still there. Apparently aesthetic surgery hadn't been on the healer's checklist.

She turned her attention to her chains- her _new_ chains. She couldn't physically see them in the dark, but they felt heavier. Either there were more of them, or they were made from a stronger compound.

Aelin was so focused on her own body that she didn't hear the approaching footsteps. Her cell door swung open, the sound taking her by surprise. She had been standing with her back turned to the door, and the light crawled across the floor, wrapping around her body.

She quickly turned, and eight new guards stood just outside the doorway. Apparently her other six had been demoted. One of them stalked into the room and gripped her by her forearm, practically yanking her out the door.

She opened her mouth to protest, but the same guard yanked her further out the door and directly into his chest. He leaned down into her ear, his breath cold as ice. "If you value the ability to speak at all, you will hold your tongue," he hissed. "Her Majesty's wishes don't depend on the presence of your vocal cords."

She scowled at the fae male, but closed her lips. The rest of the males in the hallway grabbed ahold of her numerous chains and they departed, this time with three on the sides, rather than the previous two.

Aelin didn't bother to ask their names, and the absence of taunting one-sided dialogue made the invention of them far less entertaining. They began walking down the corridor. Her gaze jumped from male to male, each straighter-backed and face more stone-like than the last.

Aelin sighed to herself. She was missing Tweety already. For the third day in a row, assuming she hadn't been unconscious for longer than one, they bypassed Cairn's playroom.

Only this time, they didn't turn to leave the dungeons, but continued forward, entering an entirely new section of stone cells. Aelin began steeling herself, slipping into the calm that she entered before her sessions with Cairn. No doubt, he had invented a new elaborate game for the two of them to play.

She felt Maeve's presence before they turned the last corner. They entered a large room, the ceilings reaching almost as high as the castle above, but without the decorative fixtures and extravagant pillars. The walls were still made from the stone of the dungeons, but the space was huge and open- like some kind of underground throne-room.

And standing in the middle of the dark audience chamber was the queen herself. She was surrounded by twelve of her fae soldiers, all of them bloodsworn. The remnants of Rowan's cadre was there as well- even Fenrys stood in the back, his face stoic as she and her guards entered the room.

Her irons were pulled taut, yanking her to a sudden stop. Immediately, she scanned the room for Cairn, but he wasn't there. Aelin turned her eyes to Maeve, who waited patiently in the center of the room- her power vibrating off the stone walls. The hold on Aelin's chains was loosened, and she was shoved to the ground, her knees barking in protest.

Aelin looked back up at the Queen who appeared taller now that she was on the ground. Maeve's lips tilted slightly. "Someone," she purred softly, "has some severe separation anxiety...

"I leave you alone for two minutes, and you decide to go on a suicidal rampage- murdering two of my guards, severely injuring another eleven, and temporarily incapacitating my most talented weapon's master." Maeve clicked her tongue.

Aelin glared, suppressing a snort. _Weapon's master._ It must have been an iron dagger she plunged into Cairn's eye for it to take more than a day to heal. Aelin hoped that his eye was irrecoverable, but with Maeve's access to the land's most experienced healers, she seriously doubted it.

Maeve cocked her head, her dark hair falling off her shoulder. "I obviously can't leave you here alone." Her voice was sickeningly sweet.

"So what..." she lifted her hand in a small sweep. A silent command. "- am I to do with you?" Two of the guards stepped forward, carrying out whatever order she had issued. _More chains._ Aelin stiffened, and her guards tightened their grips. The two guards approached, and Aelin was wrenched to her feet.

They began attaching the extra shackles, the weight of iron multiplying by the second. The finishing piece wasa mask- the same one from the beach where she'd allowed them to take her. By the time they had finished, she was, once again, wrapped head to toe in iron.

The only part of her body not completely restricted of movement was her legs. But even then, the fetters clamped around her ankles and the weight of the metal made it difficult to walk.

The two guards who had approached with the chains stalked back to their places. Aelin swayed from the burden, and she felt her guards resume their places by her side, their hold on her arms stabilizing her body.

With the mask on, her vision was limited, and her peripheral sight nonexistent. But her view of Maeve was unobstructed, and she saw the feline grin that spread across her face clearly.

"I have decided," she continued. "-that rather than risk you damaging more of my property in my absence," The Queen paused, and the males surrounding her began to shift to the sides of the room. "- that you will be joining us on our trip."

Before Aelin had time to wonder what she meant, enough of the guards had moved apart, that the back wall of the stone room was now visible. Horror crumpled her, and it took every ounce of her willpower not to drop to her knees.

Across the throne room, no more than 100 feet away, and painted on the stone wall were a series of wyrdmarks. _A portal_.

They were the same wyrdmarks she had used to open the portal the first day she'd arrived. And they bore smudges identical to the ones she had created while fighting. Aelin's chest constricted, and her mouth went dry.

Maeve had copied her wyrdmarks and recreated the portal in which Aelin had thrown the second wyrdkey. Maeve's smile widened as Aelin realized why they were all there- why she had been dressed in an excess number of chains.

They were going to travel through it. "Ahh," Maeve purred. "-so this won't need much explanation."

Devastation crashed into Aelin. All these weeks of suffering under Cairn's blade and pressing against the darkness, one of her only comforts had been Maeve's inaccessibility to the keys. And now... now her own foolishness had led Maeve right to them. _How could she have lacked the foresight to not destroy the portal after she had thrown in the keys?_ She should have burnt them off the wall- one last surge of flame, and this all would have been over. Now, Maeve would use her own powers to reopen the portal. And soon, she would have control over both Aelin and the keys.

Maeve's wicked grin widened even further as she turned away and walked towards the dormant wyrdmarks. "You should be happy to know," the Queen began. "-that your little stunt with the wyrdkeys upon your arrival has not been in utter vain."

She slowed as she reached the stone wall. "I've already sent delegates through to inspect the other side, where they discovered a small kingdom of sorts- 'The Spring Court,' they call it. The people seem quite civilized and have agreed to negotiate business with us, as well as provide lodging."

She turned her head over her shoulder, meeting eyes with Aelin. "That, is where we are going today. And I've decided to bring you along with us."

Maeve turned back to the wall and immediately began reciting the incantation. Aelin's knees quivered, and she stopped hearing- stopped seeing. She vaguely registered a wave of magic as the portal formed, and the increasing strength of Maeve's chanting. But Aelin herself wasn't present. Something had bent inside of her, and she was immediately thrown back to that day at the beach- before she had been taken.

If Aelin couldn't find a way to stop Maeve from finding the keys- then it would all be for nothing. Everything she had planned- the people she had lied to and betrayed with her sacrifice- it would all become meaningless. She would not- could not, let this happen.

Aelin was shocked out of her reverie when one of the males shoved her from behind. Five of her guards had left the room, and now she was only held by three. They pushed her forward, across the length of the room, to where the rest of the males in the space had gathered. The warriors all stood tensed- ready to jump into the unknown.

The portal was alive. It glowed like the golden light of the sun. However, unlike the previous portal she had made in that cell, this portal was filled with the lush greens and radiant colors of an obviously thriving botanical garden. The scent from the plants reached through from the other side. It had a sweet kind of natural freshness, often artificially recreated in perfumes, but that could only be achieved from actual flowers.

Aelin wondered if the location of the destination on the other side portal depended on their location on this side of the portal as well. It would explain why this one did not lead directly to the room in which she had sent the key.

There was a final pulse of light, and Maeve finished her incantations. Two of the guards stalked forward and immediately walked through, followed by Maeve and her three immediate escorts.

Apparently, everyone was assigned to pairs, because immediately following, another two passed through as well.

Next, Aelin and her guards began moving forward. As she approached the portal, her gaze met with Fenrys's, who had yet to go through. His eyes were slightly wider than usual, his jaw clenching, and he raised his eyebrows briefly, in acknowledgement of her attention. So he was having similar thoughts- that this was a very, _very_ bad situation.

She broke his gaze when they were just a few steps away from the passage. From here, Aelin could see the golden light emanating from the wyrdmarks more clearly, and how the doorway thrummed with their traitorous power.

The three males dragging her by her chain-covered arms showed no sign of hesitation; nonetheless, Aelin made sure to take a deep breath before crossing the threshold and plunging into the depths of the colorful portal.


	13. PART 11: FEYRE & AELIN

There were fourteen of them in total. Twelve males. One female. And one unknown. All of them high fae, with the possible exception of whoever, or whatever was confined in chains. Each of the males was large and formidable in their body mass and power; however, for all the sound they made walking down the stone path to the manor, they may as well have been made of air.

Feyre felt Lucien stiffen next to her, and she sneaked a glance at the emissary. He, along with Tamlin, who stood on the other side, and the ten-or-so males who waited behind them, was utterly focused on the approaching group. His face was still and impassive. No one moved, but Feyre sensed everyone's weight shifting, preparing to take action if necessary.

She flicked her gaze back to the stone path on which the powerful queen and her court approached the manor.

As they neared closer, Feyre decided that she found their formation somewhat odd. The male soldiers had positioned themselves around their queen in an oblong triangle, with the chained creature trailing just slightly behind the queen. The males were less of a unit of soldiers than objects simply orbiting their queen.

As they walked, the males in front trained their eyes on the Spring Court's group, flitting from figure to figure, while the males toward the back scanned the perimeter, most of their heads turned slightly, as if listening for danger.

The foreign group stopped about ten feet away. Without the distinct noise of swishing gear and rattling chains, the only sound was of the soft breeze, now stiff with tension. Even the manor behind them had gone silent.

The moment seemed to stretch on for eternities, and the air was taut with the eyes of two dozen high fae sizing each other up.

Somewhere a bird chirped, the single note shattering the invisible barrier, and Tamlin started forward. The moment he left their line of three, Lucien shifted closer to Feyre, like he had no doubt been ordered to do. However, she could also feel him leaning forward, prepared to be at his high lord's side within an instant.

Tamlin approached the front of their group at a moderate pace, his hands delicately resting at his sides, and his head held high. He stopped in front of the first soldier, who was slightly taller than the high lord, but emanated far less power.

Feyre heard an almost imperceptible delicate clearing of the throat, and the first three males in their group shifted to the sides, adjusting the formation so that the queen was completely visible.

Ironically, the first thing that Feyre thought of was the night sky. Not the elegant, beautiful starry skyline and comforting sweet air of the night court, but a darker form of night. The kind of night that smothers you in chilling darkness and suffocating black, or strangles you in nightmares. So much of the foreign queen was darkness. Her long sheet of onyx hair, her swirling robes, even her obsidian eyes all seemed to absorb the light.

If her aura was the night sky, then her skin was the moon- ethereally pale against a set of blood red lips. Feyre involuntarily shuddered and wondered how much blood this dark queen had tasted.

Tamlin leaned forward, holding out a hand in an open gesture.

 _Everything_ about the high fae woman was beautifully ethereal. She graciously raised her arm, even that small movement incredibly graceful, and Tamlin bowed at the waist, clasping her fingers in his, and bringing the back of her hand to his lips.

"Your majesty..." he spoke softly into the close space.

Her red mouth twisted into a faint smile as Tamlin straightened. All twelve males watched him with fierce intensity as he released her hand and stepped backward.

"My name is Tamlin," he projected. "And as one of the seven high lords of the land of Prythian, I welcome you to the Spring Court."

The queen's lips tilted even more, as if amused by the entire encounter. When she spoke, her voice was silkily smooth and endearing, while also laced in chilling authority and power.

"The Kingdoms of Doranelle and Terrasen thank you humbly for your gracious acceptance of our meeting, Lord Tamlin."

The queen was nearly interrupted by the sudden violent rattling of iron, as the creature jerked in the arms of the men holding its chains, shouting something incoherently. Everyone in the Spring Court representatives fixed their attention on the prisoner and the encounter. The three guards holding the chains tightened their grips, and the prisoner's body went taut. Now that they were closer, Feyre could see more clearly, and after a second's consideration, she determined that the prisoner was a she- appearing to be a young high fae woman as well.

Neither the queen nor her guards acknowledged the disruption. All remained completely still, their eyes on their queen or Tamlin and his own court. Except for a single golden-haired male in the the back of the formation, whose gaze flickered to the prisoner. It was clear that no one had any intentions of addressing the disruption.

Tamlin's gaze lingered only a moment before returning to the queen. They continued forward with more introductory pleasantries, and Feyre began her own sizing-up.

Physically, all of the queen's males were extremely similar- each possessing a large muscularly toned body, and each dressed in a variety of battle gear and weaponry.

She quickly discovered that these were no mere soldiers- they were warriors. Immortal high fae who emanated raw power, and had spent lifetimes honing it into a lethal weapon.

Feyre silently devoured their group, quickly assessing. Flitting from male to male, she brushed up against all of their minds, testing their walls. She was slightly surprised to find that the males all had fairly weak barriers, her own powers slipping between the cracks with ease. However, she couldn't reject the possibility that the males simply didn't have their mental guard up. Perhaps they were unaware of her powers. Or maybe the daemati didn't exist in their world at all.

Feyre felt the weight of someone's gaze and changed focus. She immediately recognized the tall raven-haired male as one of the delegates from two days prior. From the moment the queen and her court had arrived, Feyre had felt the presence of her guards' eyes- cold, calculating, assessing. Most of them were fleeting, sparing only a few seconds before switching focus to a more formidable threat- practically dismissing her presence entirely.

However, she felt a few of their gazes linger. She took a mental note of the guards who watched her more closely than the was much more confident with her daemati abilities, and felt little guilt at sifting through the minds at the Spring Court. If they began to suspect her for the threat that she was, or decided to draw attention to herself, then she would not hesitate to do some mental coaxing.

Feyre snapped her attention back to the center of the groups, when Tamlin turned and gestured to her and Lucien. "-Lucien, my personal advisor and emissary to the Autumn Court. And Feyre, soon-to-be consort of the Spring Court, and the lady of the house."

Though the entire conversation was cheerily eloquent, these last words were emphasized with a subtle lethal calm. An outward threat to all of the males, that the female standing behind him was his.

Feyre fought to keep her muscles relaxed and her expression sweetly aloof. She allowed herself the small movement of curling her toes against her shoes. The action did little to soothe the raging hatred which constricted her bones. She broadened her mental net, taking a general census of the opposing warriors. All of them recognized the threat for what it was, some taking closer head than others; however, most of them simply filed it away. Some distant part of Feyre's mind relaxed slightly with the knowledge that these males were not particularly interested in her as one of Tamlin's belongings.

She slowly released another breath. Despite her utter disgust for Tamlin and everyone at the Spring Court, she couldn't help but acknowledge the fact that she was _there_. Before, Tamlin wouldn't have allowed her within 2 miles of this strange queen's arrival. And not with only Lucien as a guard. She hadn't even had to ask him to let her come- he'd acted as if it her presence was a given.

Some small, distant thing in her stirred, but it was a mere blip on her radar- completely overcome with her hatred for him and Ianthe and the King and what they had done to her sisters. With the overwhelming happiness she experienced with the court of dreams, and the all-consuming love she felt for Rhysand- her mate.

A warm sensation traveled down her arm, and it took all she had not to look down at it- at her high lady mark. Her toes un-clenched, and she carefully wiggled her fingers, releasing the warm tingling out through her nails and into the air.

A few more pleasantries were exchanged, and Tamlin gestured to the manor, inviting everyone inside. A few Spring Court soldiers separated off to stand by the door entrances as Feyre and Lucien led their group into the main entrance, followed by the Queen and her many fae warriors. They stopped in the middle of the marble foyer, circling the exact spot Feyre had broken down before Mor came to rescue her. The same spot on the marble floor where she had caved in on herself and almost let herself become consumed by her own darkness. Fighting the urge to glance down, she absentmindedly ran her fingers across the spot where her ring had been. Before she'd melted it off.

She felt Tamlin's eyes land on her, and glanced his way. He, too, was looking at her hand, as if imagining the ring that used to be there. She gently cleared her throat, and his eyes flicked up. She softened her eyes and gave him a small reassuring smile with as much calm and endearment as she could muster. He nodded briefly before turning back to the group.

He gestured to the doors to his right. "We are prepared to serve dinner in the dining hall through these doors-" He looked pointedly to the many guards, perhaps more than he had expected. "Afterwards, servants of ours will show you to your rooms, so you can get settled in, and we can begin our business in the morning."

The end of his brief instructions was clearly the cue for everyone to enter the dining hall, but the room remained still with a brief moment of tension. The Spring Court's gaze had shifted back to the chained prisoner- the high fae woman.

As if she knew she was about to be addressed, the chained woman straightened, appearing more alert. Tamlin tilted his head in her direction, his voice slightly colder.

"I was not made aware that your prisoners would be joining you." He said this with noticeable condescension and disdain, several of the queen's males stiffening at the insult. But the Queen seemed to take no notice.

"It was a last minute decision," she explained curtly. "- She gets antsy when I leave her home alone."

Feyre was slightly taken aback by this. Everything about this queen was so poised and ethereal, but when she spoke of the prisoner, her words were nefarious and dripped with cruel humor. If Tamlin was intrigued by the situation, he did not show it.

"We have several holding cells available in our prison blocks. It would be my pleasure to have one commissioned for your use during your stay." Immediately, he waved a soldier over, preparing to issue orders, but the queen stopped him.

"That won't be necessary," she drawled. "- A simple room for my men to station themselves and keep watch would be favorably adequate. Might I suggest one of your courtyards which is not in use...?" It may have been worded like a question, but her beguiling voice made it much more of a command than a request.

This, Tamlin did pick up on. The room went taut between the two rulers. A moment later, the high lord seemed to determine that there was no harm in granting this. "I am sure that can be arranged." He seemed ready to let it go and be on their way to dinner, but to Feyre's immediate agreement, Lucien stepped in.

"Is she dangerous?" he asked sternly. All eyes turned to Lucien, forever the loyal emissary, worried about foreign dignitaries bringing danger into his Court.

The Queen's lips turned. "Not as dangerous as she thinks she is." The prisoner visibly strained against her chains, one of the guards forcibly restraining her by her forearm. The Queen's lips widened into a smile, and Feyre involuntarily shuddered. It was the smile of a powerful leader who enjoyed the blood of war. A woman who relished in the torment of others, and controlled her subjects with fear and cruelty. It was Amarantha's smile.

She glanced to Lucien and Tamlin, who had both noticeably stiffened. They saw it too. Feyre's hands trembled as her anger resurfaced. Anger towards Tamlin for bringing yet another monster into his court. Who knew what kind of destruction this woman could bring. Prythian still hadn't fully recovered from Amarantha's reign, and it would not be able to handle Hybern and another sadistic female.

Tamlin nodded to Lucien, and the emissary peeled away from their group. "If you will follow me, I will see that a position is secured for your use." Lucien immediately started across the foyer to one of the many doors which led to the courtyard. Soon after, the prisoner and her three guards separated as well, two more following in their wake.

Feyre found her intrigue in this prisoner increasing by the second- five immortal high fae warriors for one woman. A woman who was wrapped nearly head to toe in chains and looked as though she could fall over at any moment. Feyre wondered if she was really that dangerous, or just hard to hold on to.

The tension in the foyer was noticeably more relaxed with the prisoner and nearly half the queen's guard gone. Tamlin walked to Feyre and brushed his hand against her lower back, as if making sure that she was still there. He gently ushered her forward as he turned and led the group into the dining hall, his spine straighter, and his gait slightly stiffer than before.

They filed in through the doorway, Tamlin standing at the head of the table, Feyre on his left, and the Queen to his right. To Feyre's slight surprise, none of the queen's guards took a seat, but positioned themselves around the perimeter of the room. Tamlin kept only a single pair of guards at the door, the rest of the soldiers stationing themselves outside the room. In terms of immediate man-power, the Spring Court was currently outnumbered.

As Feyre took her seat across from the Queen, she noticed that Tamlin was radiating more power than before. When she had first arrived at the Spring Court, he had purposefully dampered his powers, so as not to frighten her. But now, he was emphasizing them- his usual soft-golden light emanating much stronger than usual. Feyre wondered if anyone else had noticed the slight change- Tamlin's attempt at male bravado in the face of intimidation. The Queen delicately sat down, slight amusement written on her face, and Feyre knew that she had.

Continuing with his embellishment of power, before sitting down, Tamlin clapped his hands together and quickly spread them apart, as if pushing air. A moment later, the table was filled with food and extravagant decoration, the room vibrating with magic. The high lord immediately began transferring food to his plate, and soon after, both Feyre and the queen began gingerly reaching for fare as well.

No one spoke for a long time. The Queen's males stationed themselves around the perimeter of the room, holding so still they might as well have been their own pillars. Feyre wondered if Tamlin noticed that they were nearly completely surrounded by foreign soldiers.

The space was beginning to feel cavernous, with the defined echoes of silverware moving across plates, when the Queen spoke.

"Lord Tamlin," she prompted beguilingly. "-you said that there are seven courts in your land, but all under the name Prythian. Could you elaborate further?"

Tamlin swallowed and leisurely adjusted the cloth in his lap before answering. "The continent is called Prythian, but the land is divided into seven domains- seven courts. Each governed by its own high lord."

The Queen remained in a graceful position of authority, but her eyes bore into Tamlin with great interest. "Are all of the courts named after seasons?" The words rolled almost seductively off her tongue.

"No," Tamlin continued. "-There are the seasonal courts: Spring, Winter, Summer and Autumn. And there are the solar courts: Dawn, Day and Night." His brow darkened almost imperceptibly at the mention of the Night Court. Feyre, like the obedient domestic servant she pretended to be, reached under the table to grasp his knee- comfort and assurance that she was there. She tried not to recoil at the touch.

As if she could see the gesture, the Queen turned to Feyre then. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but her full lips lifted into a warm smile. "Lady Feyre," she spoke her name slowly, as if testing how the syllables would feel on her tongue. "Which of the courts have _you_ found the most enjoyable?"

Tamlin tensed, and Feyre met eyes with the woman across the table. Her head was tilted in an indulging, conspiratorial way, like two females sharing secrets. But her eyes were cold and sharp. The Queen had recognized a weakness in the Spring Court and jumped on it; her gaze seemed to press at Feyre, a wall of power daring her to push back.

Feyre considered it, but a slight chill ran down her arm, reminding her why she was here. She had already made the unnecessary risk of revealing her powers to the delegates, and she would not repeat the same mistake. So she broke the woman's stare, dropping her eyes to the table and shifting in her seat uncomfortably before looking to Tamlin.

"Well, I've yet to visit all of them, and I _am_ slightly biased towards the Spring Court," she said with a delicate, admiring expression towards the high lord. "- But if I'm being honest," Feyre leaned forward slightly, meeting the Queen's conspiratorial disposition. "-from what I remember, I really enjoy the warm weather and ocean view of the Summer Court."

The hall echoed with Tamlin's hearty laughter, though the action didn't quite meet his eyes. Deceit. That's what the Spring Court now relied on- deceit and facades to try to manipulate people. Feyre smiled along playfully, despite every bone in her body beginning to thrum with resurfacing disgust.

The Queen cocked her head again, her long dark sheet of hair falling in front of her shoulder, and illuminating her pale complexion. "I don't mean to pry, but do you often have troubles with your memory?" Her voice was sickly sweet.

Both Feyre and Tamlin stilled, his laughter dying off. Feyre quickly ran through their conversation in her head. _'from what i can remember...'_ she had said.

Once again, the Queen's posture was nonchalant, but her eyes bore into Feyre with a humorous condescension, as if she already knew what had happened between the Spring Court and the Night Court, and was daring her to speak otherwise. As if she knew Feyre's true allegiance and the extent of the powers that lay in her veins.

Feyre turned to Tamlin, again the timid fiance who has only just begun to heal from her traumatic experiences. He gave her a knowing look, and she curved her shoulders inward, bowing her head slightly as she prepared herself for the resurfacing of her ghosts. She checked her mental shields, and despite not finding any cracks, doubled their thickness.

Tamlin's weight leaned forward slightly as he prepared to answer, probably with some cryptic story about the evil sadism of the Night Court, when Lucien _-cauldron bless him-_ entered through the dining hall doors.

Only those who knew him best could tell that he was slightly exasperated as he crossed the room. He bowed his head in acknowledgement to the Queen before taking his seat beside Feyre.

"I apologize for my disruption." As if Tamlin's magic recognized Lucien's voice, a place setting appeared in front of him.

Tamlin merely nodded his head. "That's quite alright, Lucien."

The emissary turned to the Queen. "-Your Majesty, the remainder of your guards have stationed themselves in the East Wing Courtyard. I would be happy to show you where at your earliest convenience."

The Queen had straightened back into her seat, the set of her shoulders pronounced with an air of nobility that had been dulled before. Her voice was noticeably colder, and Feyre knew that she was suppressing irritation at being interrupted.

"That's alright, emissary. I won't be needing your assistance. I'm sure I can find my own way around your master's house."

The dismissive tone in her voice was not lost on anyone at the table. _Emissary_ -as if she didn't deem Lucien worthy of proper addressing. _House_ \- implying that the giant, elegant manor was well below her standards.

Feyre's blood stirred. Not that she felt particularly attached or loyal to the Spring Court anymore. But she had spent enough time in wealth and in poverty to recognize the greed and inferiority of a person who didn't care that others around them were starving when he or she had more than enough. And despite everything that Tamlin had done to betray her friends and family, Feyre still liked Lucien. He was a spineless coward who couldn't bring himself to stand up to his High Lord, but at least he wasn't completely oblivious.

Tamlin was inflamed. Insulting a High Lord's adviser may as well be an attack on the High Lord himself. And no one in Prythian insulted someone in the bloodline of a High Lord in such a way and got away without severe punishment. His fingers curled against the wooden table, whatever powers laying beneath his skin threatening to surface.

Feyre sensed movement across the room, and looked up to see that several of the guards were leaning forward with their hands on the handle of their various weapons, preparing to intervene.

Lucien had gone still, shrinking into his chair, as if avoiding sudden movements would calm the situation.

 _By the cauldron_ \- Feyre thought. No on one in this court could take any criticism without threatening to bring the manor down.

Feyre broke into a warm smile, subtly placing her hand on Tamlin's. "No offense to Lucien," she glimpsed at him, playfully apologetic. "-but I think that's a good choice. I, too, much prefer exploring things on my own."

She met eyes with the Queen, lifting her expression into a friendly aloofness. "I must say, though, that you will have your work cut out for you. It took me months and months to see every room in this place. And even then, without keeping track, I'm still not entirely certain I've seen them all." Feyre turned back to Tamlin with a look of admiration.

The Queen seemed to contemplate Feyre for a moment before returning her smile. The tension in the room thinned, and Feyre removed her hand from Tamlin's, which had finally stopped fidgeting.

The males surrounding the room eased back into their ethereal silence, and the rest of the meal continued forth with the typical level of tension. The Queen, who later revealed that her name was Maeve, asked more questions about the Spring Court, and Tamlin and Lucien obliged with varying levels of detail or obscurity.

When everyone was finished, the Queen excused herself, refusing Lucien's offer to show her to her rooms, and left the dining hall with her males in tow.

Tamlin waited until a few minutes before dismissing himself to go check on some things, and Feyre and Lucien were left sitting at the table alone, the two Spring Court soldiers leaving their posts at the door and exiting behind the High Lord as well.

Feyre twisted her fork in her hand and loosed a breath, slouching back into her chair.

"Thank you," Lucien broke the silence. She started to reply, but he cut her off.

"I don't know what you have planned, Feyre, or where your loyalties lie. But I know that part of you still cares. What you just did proves it."

He ran his hands through his hair, the stress of the past few months beginning to show on his features. "I don't know what happened to you at the Night Court, but you have to know that anything that happens to Tamlin or this deal with Hybern will have a direct effect on not only the rest of the Spring Court, but all of Prythian as well."

He looked at her pointedly, his eyes glossy with sincerity. "I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to help you when you needed it, but you saw how things just went-" He gestured to the now-vacant seats. "You and I both know that things are only going to worsen, especially with Hybern's delegates arriving in a few days. We need to bridge this gap- even if it's just for the next few weeks. I think that Tamlin and all of the Spring Court could depend on it."

Feyre set her fork down, swallowing thickly. She knew that he was coming to her now, because Tamlin wouldn't- or already hadn't- listened. She wanted to stand up and scream at him. For his cowardice. For standing aside and watching as her and her sister's lives were torn apart. For still not being able to convince Tamlin to listen, even after everything had happened. She wanted to throw and shatter something- to unleash her powers on the room so that someone might open their eyes and listen for once.

Feyre met Lucien's eyes. She did not forgive him. But he was right about some things. This Queen Maeve was going to bring disaster to an already precarious situation. And they needed people to keep an eye on things with the foreknowledge and hindsight of that danger. So she slowly nodded, before carefully sliding her chair back and standing up. "You're right," she said. "Now, more than ever, we need to keep our eyes and ears open, and stay vigilant."

Lucien's eyes chilled, clearly having expected a different conversation; nevertheless, Feyre pushed on. "We should be watchful and report any findings to each other." She began walking across the hall, turning back when she reached the door. "It's like Tamlin's been saying. It's important for us to be united right now. To put up a solid front. And to show the rest of Prythian that the Spring Court is not to be messed with."

Feyre pushed through the doors and out into the main hall, while forcing herself not to gag on her own words.

...

There was a noticeably larger number of guards stationed throughout the manor. Feyre spent the entire walk to her rooms acknowledging soldiers she knew. She decided that it was probably for the better, as she saw a couple of the Queen's warriors patrolling as well. Despite her continuous insistences that she could dress herself, Alis was there to help her prepare for bed, which they did in near silence.

Alis dismissed herself as soon as she saw it fit and left Feyre to wait for Tamlin's arrival. When she had arrived at the Spring Court, not entirely feigning the shock from the events of Hybern, he had had the decency to ask if she still wanted to share a bed. She assumed he was under the impression that she may not be able to stand a man's touch for a while. She told him not right away, that she needed time to recover, and so far, he had respected her wishes.

They had much to discuss, but even after the day's events, Feyre knew he wouldn't be visiting her. So she checked her mental shields once more, climbed into bed with a book, and waited for sleep to claim to her.

...

There were so many gods-damned roses.

Aelin had never really been a fan of roses. She much preferred lilies or orchids. Roses were just so cliche. The emissary had led them throughout the large house, each room more elegantly furnished than the last. She hadn't gotten very close to the tan, redheaded male, but she could have sworn that his right eye was a different color than his left.

They stopped a little ways into a hedge garden, in the middle of a stone clearing where it looked like a fountain should have been. Three of her guards led her to the middle of the circular stone pathway and sat her down, the other two positioning themselves at the two entrances, or in her case: exits.

The emissary made to walk in, but the nearest guard blocked him with a hand. The emissary- Lucien, she thought she'd heard- looked ready to object, but his gaze flicked to the four other males, and he almost immediately backed down. He met eyes with Aelin briefly, before promising to have a servant bring provisions and stalking off.

With the mask on, her vision was severely hindered; now that she was sitting on the ground, she could barely see above the hedges. Aelin turned to one of the three guards surrounding her and lifted her chains, looking questioningly at where she was sitting. He met her gaze and smirked. "I should think you'd be used to sleeping on dirt by now."

Aelin snarled against her mask, and the fae male laughed, re-positioning her chain in his hands. She marked his face for later.

Aelin positioned herself on the ground, relishing the relief of not having to hold up chains, and waited for the servant the emissary had promised. While she waited, she contemplated everything that she had seen. She wasn't able to catch the entire welcoming conversation, but she felt she had the gist.

Like Maeve had said, this place was called the Spring Court, which Aelin thought very fitting considering that the whole place looked like it came out of a floral fairy tale. The tall blonde male- the 'the High Lord' they had called him, was clearly in charge. Though the emissary also had authority.

The woman, Feyre, was still a bit of a mystery to Aelin. At first glance, she seemed like any ordinary consort, just a frivolous female who oriented all of her decisions around the wishes of men. However, Aelin's interactions with Kaltain had proven to her otherwise, so she kept the woman in the back of her mind.

The High Lord and emissary were obviously powerful, but she couldn't tell exactly how powerful.

What she wouldn't have given to take these gods-damned chains off. They oppressed not only her magic, but her ability to sense magic as well. It felt as if someone had cut off one of her senses, leaving her unable to properly assess threats or make necessary calculations. In this unfamiliar world, which was clearly brimming with magic, the sensation left her feeling more disadvantaged than she'd ever felt in Adarlan. Even before she'd mastered her powers.

She huffed a breath, the weight of the mask and chains bothering her even more than usual.

A long time later, the sun had begun to set, and Aelin came to the conclusion that her so-called provisions would not be brought until the next day. She moved a few of her chains and stretched out on the ground, stifling a groan as her muscles uncoiled. The guards tensed at her movement, but quickly settled back into casual attention.

The male who laughed may have just made her list of first people to kill, but he wasn't wrong. Aelin had spent enough time in various cells, that sleeping on the ground was no longer an issue. And despite her precarious situation, it took only a few minutes for her to fall into a surprisingly comfortable sleep.


	14. PART 12: FEYRE

Feyre had come to the decision that she should paint on balconies more often. Most of the time she set up shop in one of the garden courtyards or on the lawn, which resulted in simple landscapes or detailed orientations of flowers.

Two or three levels above the gardens, however, made for a grand landscape that showcased the seeming vastness of the Spring Court land. It was almost refreshing. As refreshing as a land stuck in incessant Spring could be to an artist who never left.

Today, she was actually painting what she appeared to be looking at. Feyre dipped her brush and leaned forward, her wrist hovering above the canvas. She lifted her head to look above the easel, studying the outline of the clouds against the blue sky.

She let her eyes drift downwards, into the garden hedges, where her gaze continually landed in the middle of one of the courtyards. The courtyard where the rest of the Queen's guards had stationed themselves around the prisoner- the chained fae woman.

Feyre had been up there a little over two hours, alternating between painting and watching the small party, and in all that time, she hadn't seen any of the guards move.

A couple times she thought one of the males may have shifted their weight on his feet, or yawned, but it also could have been her eyes playing tricks on her.

The prisoner, who was still wrapped head to toe in chains was lying on her back in the middle of the courtyard, also completely still. Feyre surmised that she was either sleeping, thinking very deeply, or cloud-watching.

She had tried several times to reach out to the prisoner with her mind, but quickly discovered that the distance was too great. She couldn't keep herself from wondering how wide Rhysand's range was, and if he'd be able to read someone from this balcony.

Feyre began swirling her brush on the canvas and sighed, recalling her earlier conversation with Tamlin. After breakfast, he had asked her to take a walk with him. They spent nearly ten minutes strolling around the perimeter of the manor in near silence, when, finally, he invited her to sit on the edge of a large fountain. It was here that he announced Ianthe would be returning the very next day.

Apparently, she had an explanation for her actions and wanted to make amends. And Tamlin had agreed to hear her out.

Feyre's body tensed in fury as she fought to not snap the paintbrush in two. It was one thing to betray herself, or members of the court of a high lord, but it was something else entirely to bring two innocent human girls into the fold. Feyre had promised that she would have Ianthe's head on a platter, and now she was expected to sit and _hear her out_.

The wood of the brush groaned, and Feyre forced herself to un-clench her hand, setting the brush on the edge of the easel.

Tomorrow was going to take a real feat of willpower to not rip that high-priestess-bitch to shreds.

Feyre glanced back at the courtyard. Still, no one had moved.

She sighed again. She was going to have to get much closer if she wanted access to the chained fae woman's mind. At the same moment she thought it, her gaze drifted to the empty tray of food sitting by the prisoner's feet, and an idea came to her.

Filing it away in her head, she picked the brush back up, and set to work on the clouds. The next time she looked up to the sky, Feyre smiled with the brief intuitive thought that she and the woman lying on the ground were watching the same cloud. 

...

An hour or so later, having just cleaned up herself from painting, Feyre walked into the kitchens. The rooms were chaotic with bustling faeries running to and from tables, carting pots and pans and baskets of food and utensils. Feyre stepped to the side just as the doors swung open, and a faery rushed in with a series of serving carts in tow.

Feyre titled her head back slightly and inhaled deeply, savoring the warm, steamy aroma of spices and cooking. Pausing to let another faery pass through the doors, Feyre made her way to a table in the middle of the room.

She skirted around the rectangular table, taking extra care not to disturb any of the bowls or utensils on its edge, and stopped in front of the working faery- the head cook of the Spring Court.

"What do you want?" the cook practically spat, refusing to remove his eyes from his bowl.

Feyre cleared her throat gently, and the faery practically flung his spatula across the room when he stopped stirring to look up. "L-lady Feyre" he stumbled, dropping his bowl to the table, and dipping into a bow. "My apologies, my lady, I did not see-" She cut him off with a friendly smile.

"No worries, cook. It was an honest mistake." He rose up from his bow and clasped his hands together in a shaky motion. He looked at her nervously, forcing a trembling smile to his face.

"Is there something I can help you with malady?"

"Yes," Feyre replied, pushing as much calming goodwill into her voice as she could manage. She tilted her head toward a stack of serving trays in the corner. "I'd like to take the prisoner her lunch today." 

...

Feyre's heels clacked somewhat ceremoniously against the stone pathways as she turned into the hedge garden. She paused and shifted the wooden tray, heavily laden with food, up higher on her arms.

The head cook had practically shoved the tray into her arms and ushered her out the door once she offered to keep his mistake to herself in exchange for granting her request . Her chest tightened at the fear in the man's face when he thought he'd gravely insulted her.

Nevertheless, keeping their interaction a secret was only more power to her. Feyre knew that it was unorthodox for the lady of a house to bring food to guests directly. Especially guests who were chained and guarded.

She made the last turn, and the leafy hedges parted slightly to reveal the long, straight pathway which opened up into the circular courtyard in which the foreign guards had stationed themselves.

She met gazes with the nearest guard and smiled as she approached the courtyard. She made the entire walk without looking away, but purposefully avoided eye contact. She didn't want to draw suspicion by appearing too assertive.

The guard didn't move or speak at all, even when she stopped right in front of him, once again adjusting the tray in her arms. The guard towered above her generally small frame, and Feyre found herself leaning slightly backwards to see his face.

"Hello," she started delicately. She added a slight stutter, hoping he interpreted it as intimidation. "I-I brought the captive her lunch." She lifted the tray up higher, as if validating her statement.

The guard looked down at her in an assessing manor. His nostrils flared, and she was only slightly taken aback when she realized that he was smelling her.

For a moment, Feyre thought that he might take the tray from her arms, but then he stepped aside, allowing her to pass through.

She gave him a warm smile and cautiously stepped forward. Feyre looked around briefly, gathering a quick sense of the space before starting towards the middle. The five fae high fae males had spread themselves out within the circular courtyard. One at each of the two entrances, and the remaining three leaning against the hedged walls, in an equidistant triangle around the prisoner.

The fae woman now sat in the middle of the stone courtyard, her posture filled with nonchalance and superiority, as if her binds were not iron chains, but jewels. Though the woman's face was covered by an iron mask, Feyre could see that her eyes followed Feyre's approach with intensity. If it weren't for the eyes, Feyre would have said that the woman looked bored, even.

Each male was even more formidable up close, and Feyre wanted desperately to hang around and pick through their minds. Unfortunately, there was a narrow window of time that she could spend there without drawing suspicion.

She slowed her walking almost imperceptibly, and threw her mental fingers out to the imprisoned woman. Her shields were extremely weak, allowing Feyre to practically walk right in. Once inside, she gently pushed against the door she'd used, checking to make sure it wouldn't slam shut and trap her inside, before pushing further.

The sound of her approaching footsteps resonated in Feyre's ears like the hand of a clock. She quickly began scanning through the woman's mind- rifling through all of her most recent memories for anything that might be of use. Unfortunately, even though her mind was mind was wide open, it was also very hard to read.

Feyre found herself bombarded with a somewhat chaotic clustering of information. The prisoner's thoughts appeared to Feyre in a montage of faces and events- flipping from memory to memory; some moving so fast, that Feyre was only able to catch a glimpse before the next one surfaced.

Feyre wondered if it was the stress of her situation, or if the woman's mind always worked like this- constantly sifting through information and stowing away every detail, no matter how minute, into facts and figures.

Thankfully, soon, the faces started to repeat themselves, and Feyre was able to piece some of the information together. However, without any background or context, what Feyre was able to comprehend visually made little sense to her.

Feyre's body reached the middle of the courtyard, and she pulled out of the woman's mind just enough to set the tray at her feet. Before Feyre could even stand up from setting the tray down, the woman's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Almost immediately, there were two guards at the prisoner's side, preparing to yank the woman backwards.

"It's alright" Feyre pleaded, briefly giving the guards pause.

The woman's grip loosened slightly, but she didn't let go. They met each other's eyes, and Feyre found herself instantly captivated by the woman's strange eyes- cerulean blue with a ring of gold around the iris. A moment later, Feyre identified the captivation as an inexplicable sense of trust.

The woman stared back intently, as if trying to communicate something, and Feyre nodded in understanding with her eyes, while slipping back into the prisoner's mind.

It was a completely different experience; this time, the woman's thoughts played in chronological order, like a scrapbook that had finally been put together, or a story she wanted to share.

The woman's memories flipped from scene to scene, loading more and more information into Feyre's mind. A pit of dread had formed in the bottom of Feyre's stomach, and with each passing memory she received, it grew larger and heavier.

Suddenly, the woman let go of her hand, and Feyre fell backwards out of her mind. Physically, she remained bent down, her hands still hovering over the tray, and her eyes looking unblinkingly at the prisoner.

The guards gripped the fae woman by her arms and pulled her away. The rattling of the prisoner's chains seemed almost intrusive in the courtyard, which had previously only had the quiet hum of insects and plant life.

The fae woman did not react to being dragged backwards, but continued to stare at Feyre with intensity, obviously wanting to know if she had gotten her point across. Feyre swallowed and subtly nodded her head before coming to her senses and standing up from the ground.

She felt five more pairs of eyes intensify as she made her way out of the circle and back the way she'd come.

She stopped when she got to the entrance and looked back up at the guard who blocked her path. "I'll, um... have a servant come to pick up her tray later... Perhaps when you all get your food." She tilted her head backwards, indicating the other four guards.

Once again, the guard said nothing to acknowledge that she'd said anything. Feyre cleared her throat and looked pointedly at the path to the manor. The large fae male narrowed his eyes, his nostrils flaring, and leisurely stepped out of her way; allowing her to pass.

She gave her trademark warm smile, and began the long walkway out of the gardens.

She thought back to what the prisoner had shown her, some of the more horrific scene replaying in her head. Feyre couldn't make complete sense of everything she'd seen, but one thing was certain. To let these powerful stones- these _wyrdkeys_ \- fall into the wrong hands would mean untold death and destruction.

Her mind flashed back to one of the memories in which she'd recognized the visiting queen- _Queen Maeve-,_ whose sinister smile was disturbingly akin to that of Amarantha.

Then she recalled the prisoner's- _Aelin's_ \- eyes, and the way they'd focused on Feyre with such intensity. Feyre recognized it not as a threat, but a silent question; a plea for help.

Feyre felt the eyes of the guard bore into her back as she made the final turn out of the hedges. The shaking of her hands was not just for show.


	15. PART 13: FEYRE

After her encounter with the fae woman _-Aelin_ , Feyre spent the rest of the day walking about the manor. She was too shaken, and her mind too preoccupied to sit still. She would have asked Tamlin to assign her a few escorts so she could travel outside of the manor, but he had yet to return. Feyre figured if he wasn't still in negotiations with the foreign delegation, that he was probably attending to more business with Hybern.

A light breeze stirred the air as Feyre strolled along a stone walkway around the perimeter of the manor. Five more minutes down the path, and the squat, rectangular shape of the soldier's barracks came into view.

Just two men conversed outside of the building; Feyre guessed they were probably trying to convince one another to trade shifts, but their conversation was lost behind the hectic cacophony of the training area further down the path.

She stopped walking when the training grounds came into full view. The open lands totaled about four acres, and were hardly ever not in use. The space was divided into separate training areas for a variety of weapons. Feyre's eyes were drawn to the center most area: the sparring rings, where a handful of males fought.

It was not uncommon for Feyre to make the walk and watch the soldiers train when she found herself with nothing to do. Initially, she thought that she might be able to garner useful information from watching the soldiers: a new battle tactic or fighting technique that might hint at Hybern's plans. Even absent-minded gossip had the potential to yield important information.

However, after her third or fourth time attending, Feyre came to the conclusion that nothing was to be discovered by watching them. Either Tamlin guarded his secrets too closely or his officers were not very forthcoming with their soldiers. Feyre suspected it was probably both.

If Tamlin knew of her little excursions to the training grounds, he hadn't said anything.

It wasn't until the third time she'd made the walk that whoever was in charge stopped asking her if she needed anything. And it wasn't until her fourth or fifth visit that most of the soldiers had finally relaxed enough to train properly. She imagined that it was probably very intimidating to have someone close to their high lord watching them.

She also suspected that if she had been anyone other than the "soon-to-be-lady of the Spring Court" or "Savior of Prythian" then she would have been asked not to come, for the sake of the soldiers' focus. Fortunately, the males got used to her presence and no one said anything negative about her visiting.

Despite the low turnout of information, Feyre liked coming to watch the training. She found peace in the metallic drone of clanking weapons, and the absence of servants and nobility. The atmosphere reminded her of the training routine she'd endured with Cassian, and she longed not just for the presence of her friend, but surprisingly, for the training itself.

Feyre let her lips turn into a wry smile. She could imagine the talking-to Cassian might give her after not training or conditioning for months in a row. "No excuse..." he might say. "...you let yourself regress; now we have to rebuild your endurance before we can continue working on combat..."

Feyre forced her mind back to the training grounds, and walked towards one of large trees that she liked to lean against. One of the males at the weapons rack noticed her, and offered her a quick smile before returning to the rack. She gave him a small wave and laughed to herself.

Her attendance to their training sessions was perceived in a variety of ways: many found it flattering, while others met it with indifference. Though they would never voice it, some of the males thought her a nuisance, one or two of them even questioning her presence with suspicion.

No matter the opinion, all of the males had grown accustomed to her periodic attendance, and a quick skim of their minds revealed that many of them even used the presence of Tamlin's future bride as motivation to work harder.

Feyre watched the males spar in the center for a few minutes before she realized that something was wrong. Their fighting stances were unusually taut; the conversations unusually quiet. A quick glance to the other training areas showed the same. The entire training grounds were tense, and all of the males especially guarded.

Throughout the ranks, males' gazes continued to flit to the back of the grounds. Feyre followed their looks to a small clustering of trees at the edge of the archery range.

Also leaning against a tree, intently watching the soldiers as they trained, was a tall fae male. One of Queen Maeve's warriors.

Feyre eyed him across the grounds. And then, probably against her better judgement, pushed off her tree and started towards him. As she made the long walk, she called a tight breeze between the not-so-curiously empty archery range and the rest of the training grounds, invisibly separating her and the queen's warrior from the rest of the soldiers.

The walk was more than three acres long, but Feyre would have bet gold that he'd sensed her approach before she even came into view of the training grounds at all. Yet he didn't acknowledge her until she was less than ten feet away.

Feyre walked to where the male stood and joined him in leaning against the nearest tree, without saying a word. Their trees had intercepted each other's growth, and the trunks stood less than a foot apart; rendering her and the male close enough to touch.

As soon as she settled, he turned back to the training grounds and resumed watching. She tried to resume her watching as well, but she found it hard to concentrate, and her gaze repeatedly drew back to the male on her left.

Like all the males in the Queen's command, he was tall and formidable. He emanated sheer power, and his muscular build rivaled the Illyrian warriors.

However, unlike the other warriors, her immediate impression of this male was that he looked warm. He had tanned bronze skin and a mane of long golden hair; though his dark onyx eyes spoke of rugged handsomeness, it was difficult to describe this male as anything other than incredibly beautiful.

She tore her gaze away and continued watching two of the soldiers spar. A handful of the soldiers continued glancing in their direction, either worried for her safety, or suspicious of their seeming interaction.

She found herself looking back at the male. His arms remained folded comfortably across his chest, and his legs crossed in a picture of nonchalance. Every once in awhile, his nostrils flared, and, again, Feyre found herself curious about their compulsion to sniff things.

She looked away once more, brushing up against his mind as she did so. Just as his physical appearance suggested, the male possessed a cache of raw power, and a library of battle skills and experience. She skidded mentally against his fairly weak shields and glimpsed some of his most recent memories. A flash of the currently imprisoned fae woman gave her pause.

She willed herself not to look at him before probing further. A series of thoughts and memories regarding the woman flitted through his head. She started to delve deeper into his thoughts, but the male's voice startled her into immediately pulling out of his mind.

"I see you have a thing for blondes" he remarked somewhat humorously.

It took her a moment to process his words; then she had to suppress a laugh. Without turning to face him, she replied "I confess: they are a weakness of mine."

She wasn't looking at him, but she sensed him smile. Neither of them looked away from the sparring ring, where a few soldiers were now unabashedly staring. Some of them stood facing away with their heads turned, subtly trying to eavesdrop. Unfortunately for them, the breeze that Feyre held between the two groups was carrying her and the male warrior's words in the other direction; they would hear no sound from where they stood.

"That's a neat trick-" he spoke again, gesturing in front of them, to her invisible breeze "...wind magic?" he asked.

Feyre considered dropping the breeze, but decided that it would be equivalent to a concession. Instead, she turned to him. "You are familiar with wind magic?"

He smiled to himself, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Of sorts," he replied, still without looking at her.

She, however, could not stop looking at him. There was a sort of familiarity that she could not place; she remembered where he stood at the back of the delegation during the queen's arrival, but something else nagged at the back of her brain.

"May I ask you a question?" she asked abruptly. He finally turned his head away from the training grounds to look down at her. They spent a long moment of time silently contemplating each other.

He twisted his body so that he was facing her head on, and resumed leaning against the tree with his shoulder. He recrossed his arms, and continued peering down at her, now the picture of male arrogance.

"A question for a question," he replied.

Feyre's chest clenched, the entire encounter feeling uncomfortably similar to the thought-exchange she'd shared with Rhysand on numerous occasions.

She was about to refuse, but then his face clicked into place. She recognized him from the time she had spent inside Aelin's mind- it was just a couple of fleeting moments, but he had definitely been there, fighting beside the fae woman.

If she understood what she had seen, he may have even been fighting against Queen Maeve- the woman he currently guarded and served. Perhaps his memories of the fae woman were more than just that of a guard who kept her prisoner.

Countless questions popped into her mind, and before she could think better of it, she accepted. "You first."

The male considered her for a moment, running his eyes down the length of her body; apparently contemplating more than his question. Feyre tried not to scowl.

Finally, he met her eyes and asked: "What's up with the redhead's left eye?"

Feyre felt herself blink in un-suppressed surprise, and once again, had to force herself not to laugh. It was not the type of question she had expected. She paused another moment, developing a response. "Lucien is an emissary to the Autumn Court, but he delivers messages to other courts as well," she began.

The male looked at her expectantly.

"Have you ever heard the saying: 'Don't shoot the messenger'?"

He gave a brief nod.

"Well," she continued. "-the woman who cut his eye out hadn't." She would have stopped there, but he continued to watch her; waiting for more information.

Feyre shrugged, while suppressing an involuntary shudder- Amarantha's memory was still fresh in everyone's minds. "She didn't take rejection very well." Then she turned back to the training grounds, signifying that her answer was complete.

The shake of his head would have been rueful, were it not for the darkness that clouded his brow. "Women," he said. "-it seems like they always go for the eye."

He expelled a deep breath, and whatever he had been thinking about with it. "Alright," he prompted. "-what's your question, Lady Feyre?"

For once, Feyre didn't mentally recoil at the title; she was already too preoccupied trying to decide her question. There was so much she wanted _-needed-_ to know about their world, about the queen, and about the fae woman named Aelin.

She desperately wanted to ask about his relationship with Aelin, but she didn't think it would go over well. Instead, she thought of something that might have equal weight as his question.

"Why does your Queen employ only males?" she asked.

He grinned deviously, his slightly elongated canines glinting in the afternoon sun. "Lady Feyre, you ask the obvious." She opened her mouth to object, but he stopped her. "My Queen wouldn't dare risk sharing the attention of her males by employing another woman."

Feyre did not miss the hint of venom behind his voice.

She considered him from head to toe, and couldn't help but think that he might despise his Queen. But if that were so, she wondered why he did not just leave.

Perhaps, he was a spy feigning allegiance to an enemy crown. But then again, a spy would not make his distaste for the enemy so easily known.

Feyre found herself growing more and more puzzled by these foreigners.

"... then, why bring along the female prisoner?" she risked asking.

Shadows crossed the male's face, and his easy demeanor closed off. He narrowed his eyes, the onyx irises darkening. For a moment, she thought he might ask her to leave, but then he replied "The _prisoner_ is off limits;... besides, it's my turn to ask a question."

This time, she gave the expectant look.

"We both know why I'm here, watching your soldiers train," he asked. "-but why are you?"

Feyre didn't hesitate. "Am I not allowed to inspect the progress of my ranks?" she replied casually

He shrugged; the natural breeze shifting the tree branches above, but refusing to touch his golden hair. Feyre knew that if she were to paint him, she would have great trouble getting the hues of his hair to her satisfaction.

"No. That's a perfectly reasonable explanation, except they're not your soldiers- you're just a consort; a soon-to-be one at that."

Feyre started, tensing her body and mustering offense.

His devious smile returned. "Regardless," he continued. "-that's not why you're here."

She crossed her arms and huffed a breath, hopefully the picture of an indignant noble. "Alright, queen's guard..." He frowned slightly at the title. "I like to come out here and watch _Tamlin's_ soldiers train, because I find it peaceful."

He raised his eyebrows, ready to call her on a lie, but she pressed on."-It's time away from servants and courtesans and politics and court intrigue."

He looked at her again, as if considering her in a new light. He leaned closer, so that he was practically hovering above her. "Spoken like someone unaccustomed to life as a noble." His voice turned silkily smooth, and he met her gaze with intensity. His nostrils flared, obviously taking in her scent.

Feyre imagined him using the same movements in the past to seduce dozens of women.

She slowly tore her gaze away and shrugged. "There are far fewer pretenses in the sparring ring."

The male laughed wholeheartedly, straightening back to his initial position and returning the space between them. "I know many who would say quite the opposite."

He opened his mouth to say something else, but she cut him off. "What is it with all of you fae males and your noses?"

He raised his eyebrows in slight confusion. Feyre tapped the side of her nose. "You're constantly smelling things" she elaborated.

He broke into another smile, and looked pointedly at the training grounds, where several males continued to try to eavesdrop on their conversation. He then gestured to her slightly pointed ears. "As members of the fae, we both have a keen sense of hearing," he mirrored her movement of tapping the side of his nose. "-but I take it that your sense of smell is not as refined as ours."

Feyre recalled the day she and Rhysand had spent in the cave together- when he had been shot out of the sky with poisoned ash arrows, and she had used her sense of smell to track him.

"Our sense of smell is much stronger than the average human's," she countered.

He laughed almost condescendingly. And as if he had read her mind, replied "yes, but we use or noses for much more than tracking. Where I come from, our sense of smell is practically an entire form of communication."

Feyre was not feigning her interest as she cocked her head, prompting him to continue.

"Emotions," he began. "-when someone is experiencing happiness, anger, sadness, lust..." He spoke slowly and deliberately, once again leaning closer to where she stood, like it was a private conversation meant for her ears only. She wondered if it was an involuntary reaction of his.

"If someone is wounded or bleeding... we can smell a paper cut from a mile away. If someone is dying, or if a female is with child." He continued to list the possibilities, while appearing lost in thought. "Mating bonds-though both partners typically have to be in close proximity for it to be initially recognizable." Feyre expelled a small breath and forced herself to appear unaffected.

"It's more of a physical sense than a scent, but we can also smell power... magic." He gave her what may have been a knowing look, and she fought the urge to take a step backward.

He broke the eye contact he had been holding and turned back to watch the training grounds. "Of course, the closer you are to a person, both physically and emotionally, the easier it is to detect things about them.

"And the male's sense of smell is much stronger than the female's." His eyes lit up mischievously. "You do not want to get between a male and his mate- they get very particular about whose scents are allowed on their mate."

She expected him to stop, having provided much more information than she, but he made a big show of smelling the air, causing her to tense.

"There are so many flowers in this court," he mused. "It took me a solid four hours to adapt to the smell, and even now, sometimes it gets too overwhelming, and all I can smell are those damned roses."

Feyre continued to watch the male warrior, while swallowing the lump that had formed in the back of her throat. She should have laughed at his playful remark, but she was suddenly terrified that all of the Queen's males could smell her secrets.

If this conversation had any reliability, then she could probably assume that the queen and her males were aware of her powers- but whether or not they knew the extent of her magic remained a question.

She didn't think that they could smell her and Rhysand's mating bond. It'd been months since they'd been in close proximity, and none of the males had been exposed to the scent for them to recognize it from a distance.

She wondered whether this male would stand so close to her, if he knew of her mating bond. Or whether she would be treated differently if they believed she and Tamlin were mates.

Feyre was jarred out of her reverie by the clash of metal. She turned to the training grounds, and realized that in her preoccupation, she had allowed the breeze to dissipate.

She loosed a breath and was about to excuse herself, when something made her stop. "What is your name?" she asked.

He didn't face her before answering, but she saw his lips tilt upwards. "Fenrys. Now you owe me a question."

Feyre glowered at him, but it was halfhearted. She began the walk back to the manor.

A couple feet away, he called out to her. "Lady Feyre-" she turned to face him, and their eyes met with intensity.

Even from the distance, she could see the emotional fervor that shadowed his face."-be careful what you reveal to whom," he said softly. "...not everyone's thoughts are their own."

Feyre gave a brief nod and turned her back on him once more, continuing up the path.

She discerned his warning to be sincere, but it left her feeling slightly confused and with even more questions.

With daemati like her and Rhysand running about, she understood someone's thoughts not being their own; however, she couldn't shake the feeling that Fenrys was referring to something entirely different. 

... 

Feyre spent the rest of the afternoon hyper-aware of everyone she saw. Every time she passed one of the Queen's males walking about the manor, she felt the sudden urge to hold her breath, as if not expelling air would prevent the warriors from being able to smell her.

Fenrys had implied that they could sense her powers, but not whether they knew of her being daemati. She didn't know if they even had daemati in their world, though her few interactions with the Queen made her suspect otherwise.

Feyre was just beginning to make her way towards her rooms to start preparation for dinner, when a commotion drew her attention to the other end of the hall. She took a few steps toward the noise, but stopped in her place, when a fuming Tamlin came crashing through the doors, with Lucien trailing at his heels.

She widened her eyes and turned her intrigue into a look of loving concern. "Tamlin, what-?" she began to ask. But he didn't even acknowledge her presence as he stormed down the hall and whipped around the corner.

She didn't hesitate to join Lucien in his pursuit and began following the raging High Lord at a light jog. Soon, she realized that he was headed toward the war room, and she ran to catch up with him. " _...audacious, arrogant, bitch..._ " His seething echoed down the hall. " _...practically threatened me in my own home-_ "

"Tamlin, wait," Feyre pleaded, reaching for his forearm. "-just calm down for a second. Tell me what-"

Suddenly, his magic flared in a blinding surge of golden light. Windows and benches and tables shattered, sending glass and wood flying down the corridor. If anyone in the hall had been human, they would have been cut and impaled into tiny pieces. Fortunately, that was no longer the case.

When the dust cleared, Feyre, Lucien, and Tamlin stood in wide-eyed silence, each with their own little circle of cleanliness, where their shields had prevented the debris from hitting them.

Tamlin took a deep breath, some of the tension leaving his soldiers. He looked at the both of them apologetically. "I'm sorry," he said.

Feyre ignored his apology. "What's going on?" she asked. "Did something happen in negotiations with the Queen?"

Tamlin turned to Lucien and shared a knowing look. Feyre's chest constricted, and her anger flared. She knew what was coming before the words even formed on his mouth.

"Yes," he said softly, only looking at her briefly before returning his gaze to Lucien's. "- but now is not the time nor place to discuss it." Tamlin gave a small nod to Lucien, and the emissary took off down the hall to get things started in the war room.

Feyre looked after Lucien somewhat longingly. "Tamlin," she said, willing him to look at her. "Let me come- I can help." She hated the pleading tone to her voice- hated having to ask him for anything; but, she needed to know what was going on with the foreign Queen. "-Let me be apart of this."

For a moment, she thought that Tamlin might simply turn his back on her and continue on his way, but something made him pause. He bridged the gap between them and grasped her hand in own. "You're right." he said. "You're so right, and I love you for wanting to help." His eyes filled with sincerity, as he looked down at her tenderly, while rubbing his thumb against the inside of her wrist.

Despite her internal recoil at his touch, Feyre felt excitement rise in her chest. She was finally going to sit in on a meeting and get some real information. The smile she offered him was only half-forced.

He pulled her in close and nuzzled her hair. She kept her smile plastered on her face, while thinking, that if it meant she would be able to help her family and friends _-her mate_ , then this small amount of physical touch might be worth it.

"I love you so much." He placed a kiss on her forehead and tightened his grip on her hand before pulling away. "I'll tell you everything you need to know tonight," he said. "-wait for me."

Feyre's hope dissipated, and hot, angry, frustration seeped into her veins. All she could do was stand there looking dumbfounded as Tamlin strode down the hall and around the corner, to meet Lucien and whichever advisers he called upon in the war room. To discuss negotiations with the foreign Queen. To organize his people and resources into whatever deal he had made with Hybern. To develop the battle strategy and tactics that he planned on using against the rest of Prythian _-against the Night Court._

Tamlin's initial anger seemed to have transferred over to Feyre, as she seethed under her breath.

She wanted nothing more than to march into that war room and unleash her powers on all of them. To crash into their minds, rifle around all of their thoughts, and take whatever information they had, so that she could finally _leave,_ and return to her family.

Feyre reigned in her temper just enough to begin the walk to her rooms. She spared only a single moment to appreciate the composition of her standing among one of three clear circles in a room that was covered in dust and debris.

Her departure was intrusively loud as glass cracked beneath her heels.

Feyre reminded herself often that she could return to the Night Court whenever she pleased. She just didn't want the last three months to be a total waste; she needed to at least find something to help her court in the upcoming war before she left.

Then she could set the gardens on fire, give Tamlin and all his advisers a vulgar gesture, and winnow away without a single word. Assuming she would be able to leave without killing them all first.

Fortunately for the rest of the Spring Court, no one crossed her path as she made her way to her rooms. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was surprised by the absence of the Queen's males. If their senses were as refined as Fenrys seemed to think, then she would have expected a couple of them to be there investigating Tamlin's outburst.

She tried to school her features into general disappointment, but she must not have done a very good job, because when she walked, or rather _-charged_ -, into her rooms, Alis took one look at her before excusing herself with the promise to bring dinner.

Feyre knew that it would be at least another hour before dinner was ready. She was too riled up to sit down, so she paced the room for a few minutes, before coming to a decision.

She didn't know how closely she was being watched by the Queen, or how much her males had already discerned, but one thing was for certain: Feyre's secrets were in more danger than ever.

She crossed the room to her hidden compartment and dropped the glamour hiding the door. She then dragged out all of her paintings from the last three months, and threw them into an organized pile on the floor. She walked about all of the rooms in her suite and opened the windows.

With just a moment's hesitation for her to grieve the paintings of her friends and Velaris, she called upon Beron's flame, and set the canvases on fire.

As the wood, fabric, and paint turned to ash, she worked to contain the smoke in a small area hovering above the flames, while intermittently allowing some of it to disperse through her rooms and out the windows.

Using her magic, the paintings burned completely in under ten minutes, but it took her another thirty to drive out the smoke and ash without being conspicuous.

As the last few ashes were carried out on her breeze, her eyes were drawn to the still open compartment, and the lone obsidian stone that sat inside. While walking throughout her rooms and re-closing the windows, she contemplated what to do with it.

If Aelin's visions were to be trusted, then that stone was one of the so-called wyrdkeys.

She considered hiding it within the folds of her dress, but she feared that the Queen or one of her males would be able to sense it, and Feyre could not allow Queen Maeve to get her hands on it.

She thought about it some more, but eventually; at a loss, she decided just to leave it where it was, with the intention of brainstorming other possibilities later.

Feyre leaned against the edge of her bed and pulled in some of the air from the rose gardens to cover whatever burning smell that may have been lingering.

Alis came a little while later, a tray of food in hand. Feyre thanked her, and ate quickly.

Normally, she took her time enjoying the many spices and flavors of the luxurious food, but after the day's events, she had little taste for it.

Feeling slightly guilty for her earlier arrival, she allowed Alis to braid her hair while preparing for bed. They spent a few minutes re-hashing some well-known drama among the servants and courtesans, while Alis made several remarks about the attractiveness of the males in the Queen's delegation. They laughed like old friends, and for just a single, fleeting moment, Feyre felt somewhat at peace.

Alis seemed more tense than usual, and Feyre knew that the faery had something to say, but the words never came. She was about to press her on the matter, but the clock chimed, and Alis excused herself, leaving Feyre alone to wait for Tamlin's arrival.

Feyre grabbed one of her books and curled up in a chair. Her mind was so preoccupied, that it took a real effort to concentrate on the pages. She hoped that Tamlin's explanations would answer at least one or two of the questions rattling inside her brain.

Unfortunately, and to Feyre's utter aggravation, the High Lord never came.


	16. PART 14: FEYRE

_(I acknowledge that some of the descriptions and dialogue in this chapter are pulled directly from the text of_ _A Court of Wings and Ruin_ _)_

Feyre and Tamlin were in the dining hall eating breakfast, when one of the servants came and announced Ianthe's arrival. Tamlin excused himself immediately afterwards, with the vague explanation of needing to attend to some business before meeting with the high priestess. Feyre leisurely ate the rest of her breakfast in the comfort of solitude. As she finished her meal, she began to delve inside of herself, searching for a supply of calm that she could use to cool her temperament.

Pushing her chair back from the table, Feyre took a couple deep breaths before standing and starting toward the door. She was only a few steps out of the dining hall, when Lucien intercepted her path.

"Good morning, Lucien" she said softly. He slowed his gait to match hers, and they continued walking toward the meeting room Tamlin had specified.

"I'm surprised you're so calm, considering the promises you made to Hybern and Ianthe." He said.

Feyre indulged him is only a brief glance. "I may be furious, but I can hear her out." He looked at her skeptically, but she could sense his internal rage. Little did he know, it was nothing compared to fury that roiled inside of her as they neared the room.

"She's going to spin a story- you can't trust anything that comes out of her mouth." He said.

She shrugged, continuing down the empty hallway. "I think I can determine that for myself, though it sounds like you've already decided not to believe her."

His brow darkened, his voice lowering. "She dragged two innocent women into this."

They turned at the end of the hall, and the meeting room doors came into view.

"She was doing what she thought was needed to keep us united-" Lucien grabbed her arm, and Feyre forced herself not to winnow away, as he stopped them in the hallway.

"You're smarter than that." He said. She looked pointedly at his hand encircled around her forearm, and he dropped his hold.

His face softened slightly as he dipped his head. "Where-"

Feyre cut him off. "I've already told you, Lucien. If I knew where she was- where he was keeping her- then, I would have said so."

Desperation flashed in his eyes. "Then give me a list of all his hideouts. I'll find her myself."

"You would die the moment you set foot in his territory."

He started to object, but at the door of the meeting room opened, and the conversation ended abruptly.

Feyre started to the door, and Lucien trailed behind.

Inside the room, Tamlin stood at the head of the table, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. Feyre and Lucien filed into the room and stood behind their seats as well.

Seconds after they'd settled, the other set of doors in the room were pushed open by the guards, and Ianthe's lithe figure floated into the room, her blue robes flowing in her wake. She pushed her hood down, the shadows pulling away from her feminine face, and she took her seat across the table.

Soon after, Tamlin motioned, and the rest of them sat down as well.

Lucien was right- the high priestess used the cavernous walls of the room to spin quite the story. Every shrill note that came out of the female's beguiling mouth had Feyre gripping her skirts under the table even harder.

Feyre focused all her internal energy on watching the light bounce off the tiny stone, which Ianthe wore in a silver circlet atop her head. The priestess's hands clinked delicately from the many silver jewels which adorned her arms and fingers, as she told her perspective.

"...truly sorry..."

"...keeping our allies in Hybern satisfied with our allegiance..."

"...so you could be with your sisters forever..."

"...it would have been devastating for Lucien if he had realized she was his mate beforehand..."

The delicately-woven lies dripped off Ianthe's tongue, and several times, Feyre felt her skirts begin to warm from her hands, and she had to reign in her powers to keep from burning the room to the ground.

Despite Lucien's frequent acrid interludes, the conversation ended with Feyre consenting her somewhat hesitant forgiveness, and Tamlin, once again, emphasizing the importance of keeping a united front during their (un-admittedly) precarious situation. Tamlin concluded the meeting officially with a reminder that Hybern's first delegation would be arriving the next day around noon. He'd been informed earlier in the day that Jurian would be accompanying them.

...

Feyre had expected to spend the rest of the day dodging Ianthe, but Tamlin whisked her away following the meeting, no doubt to fill her in on the visiting Queen and to discuss 'united front' tactics.

Smoke curled in Feyre's mouth. Tamlin believed Ianthe. Still believed that she had simply made a bad call. Feyre's skin began to sear, and she used the winter magic running in her veins to freeze her burning anger into icy hatred.

During the midday meal, however, Tamlin invited the Queen to join him and Feyre on an afternoon stroll through the gardens. The Queen accepted, and three hours after the clock truck noon, she and two of her male warriors appeared in the main hall.

Not surprisingly, but to Feyre's internal aggravation, not a minute later, Ianthe floated out the manor doors and joined the group as well, as if she had invited everyone herself.

Tamlin and the Queen took the lead, while Feyre and Ianthe trailed closely behind. As they began walking, the two male warriors fell back, out of conversing proximity, but still close enough to hear their conversation- and engage physically, if needed.

Tamlin spoke passionately of the many aesthetic features of the Spring Court, and the Queen listened with uncharacteristic intent.

Several times, she politely interrupted the High Lord to inquire about the economical system and hierarchy of his lands, as well as how he obtained his position. Tamlin stayed relatively vague in all topics that did not revolve around plant life or marble statues, and soon, the Queen began to lose her intent interest.

When their group passed a statue with religious significance, Ianthe took the opportunity to stop the group and advertise the many celebrations that were being attended to for the upcoming Summer Solstice.

Her sing-song voice was beginning to trail off into ways she could incorporate the Queen into the ceremonies, when the she was cut off abruptly.

"I will not be participating in your festivities." She said coldly.

Ianthe's hands, which had been pantomiming the upcoming events in the air, stilled, her words quieting. She was unable to hide her surprise, and her face fell momentarily before lifting into a vague notion of shock.

"Oh my! of course." She chirped solicitously and placing a delicate hand to her chest. "-how inconsiderate of us- you must honor different Gods in your own lands. "

She pinched her brow in concern. "However, it'd be such a shame for you to miss out on the celebrations- perhaps we will re-order a few of the ceremonies, and you and your court can attend as spectators, instead, then you can-" Her mind was already at work, rearranging the schedule of events.

The Queen's voice cut through the warm spring air like a frosted blade. "Priestess, neither my _court,_ " she said mockingly, _"-_ nor I will be partaking in any of your pageantry."

Raucous, unadulterated laughter threatened to burst from Feyre's chest, and she bit her tongue hard enough to taste blood to keep it down.

Both Tamlin and Ianthe had gone absolutely still. But where the High Lord's face showed mild indignance, Feyre had never seen Ianthe look so insulted.

Feyre raised her hand to her mouth in wide eyed concern, to cover her faint smile. The many religious ceremonies that accompanied the solstices in the Spring Court were exactly that- frivolous pageantry for the high priestesses to parade their power.

The Night Court celebrated the solstices as well, but they were merely festivities for the people to enjoy. There were no routines or rituals to appease the spirits and honor the cauldron. No priestesses marching around, demanding blessings. No- those kinds of inane facades were reserved for the Spring Court and those put at the mercy of Ianthe and her followers.

Ianthe's breath hitched, her mouth opening and closing a couple of times; clearly flustered by the disrespect. Feyre knew that in Ianthe's little utopia of social hierarchy and powerful connections, few in Prythian spoke to the high priestess with such outright disrespect. That it was not very often the priestess was denied her wishes.

Feyre's mood darkened, the tilt of her lips returning to their solemn position, as she recalled what Ianthe had tried to do to Rhysand. What she had done to no doubt countless others.

Sensing the priestess's distress, Tamlin eyed her quickly from over his shoulder- a clear warning. Unaffected by the marble statue or Ianthe's reaction, the Queen turned from the statue and continued down the path, Tamlin pushing his strides to catch up.

Feyre spent the rest of the walk with her mind elsewhere. As the Queen dictated where they walked, Tamlin would provide information and stories on the many different aspects of the gardens, and the people of the Spring Court, while Feyre and Ianthe trailed behind.

Every couple of turns or so, Ianthe would make a comment about some benevolently-painted topic, and Feyre would respond with some graceful pleasantry; however, they often lapsed into long minutes of silence. Ianthe was not there to make conversation with Feyre, and without the Queen and High Lord witnessing, apparently, the priestess had little incentive to speak.

Feyre had no qualms. Very few times, Tamlin would glance back or acknowledge Feyre, and she would respond with a warm smile and an encouraging nod. She split the rest of the time between contemplating ways to rid herself of the wyrdkey and projecting her awareness toward the two fae males who followed their group from a distance.

Feyre had spent much of the past few days doing so. While analyzing the foreign males' brains, her initial impression was that they were just large, immortal, fae, males who'd spent a variety of years honing themselves into warriors, some of which possessed magical abilities.

However, something else had grabbed her attention the day prior.

She had been carting art supplies up one of the flights of stairs, and one of her brushes fell. She bent down to pick it up, her easel and basket balancing precariously on her leg, but the sudden appearance of a large male hand beat her too it, the action startling Feyre into jolting upwards. She tottered briefly on the edge of the step, and the foreign male who had materialized on the stairs gently gripped her shoulder and steadied her.

Feyre cursed herself for not paying attention to her mental net, as the guard asked her if she was okay. She smiled and thanked him sweetly, while focusing her powers onto his mind. However, this time, looking into his head, she felt something she hadn't noticed before- a strange humming-vibration of sorts located in the back of his mind.

She hesitated for a moment, intensifying her power and prying at the sensation. But it dissipated as suddenly as it had appeared.

The male cocked his head slightly, as if considering Feyre as well, before handing her the paintbrush and heading down the stairs.

Feyre was left in the middle of the staircase, staring at the warrior, who hadn't felt her mental touch. It was one of the few times since the Queen's arrival that one of the fae males had spoken to Feyre of his own volition, and the only time that one had made physical contact with her. She forced herself to turn away and continued her trek up the stairs.

Throughout the remainder of the day, Feyre listened for the humming in the rest of the guards. She recalled Rhysand telling her that physical contact amplified daemati's power, and decided that when the male touched her shoulder, it had made the quiet thrum of magic loud enough for her to notice.

Upon the Queen's arrival, Feyre had almost immediately recognized the presence of shape-shifting abilities that scratched at the back of all the males' minds. The noise and strength of of that animalistic instinct had been covering this newly-discovered magic.

However, now that she had sensed it, it was easier to pick out from within the males' constant veil of power.

Though present in all of the guards, the magic was so faint, that she wondered if the small piece of magic did anything at all. Or if it was just lying dormant, like a force waiting to be awakened. The more Feyre examined it, the more curious she became.

She continued to examine this in the minds of the male guards who trailed them on their walk, but no matter how far she dove into their minds, she could not decipher the purpose of the strange power.

Their party turned into a courtyard which housed a grand water fountain, and Tamlin announced that it was a good place to rest for a moment. The center of the fountain was surrounded by a large raised pool of water that glimmered reflectively against the stone in the afternoon sun.

Tamlin clapped his hands, and a rush of magic swept into the courtyard. Immediately, a small set of table and chairs appeared, atop of which refreshments and four glasses had been placed.

The Queen betrayed no emotion at Tamlin's use of magic; she merely turned her attention to the ensemble with a disinterested look. They were all taking their seats, and Feyre was about to ask about the fourth glass, when Lucien entered the courtyard from the same entrance their party had.

Ianthe welcomed him warmly as he took his place while apologizing for his tardiness. Feyre couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. It seemed as though Lucien was always arriving late to meals and such, no doubt carrying out whatever orders Tamlin had instructed of him while the Queen was occupied with dining. However, this felt more like a rescue than a belated arrival.

The moment Lucien sat down, a servant rounded the corner and entered the courtyard as well. She began pouring the bubbly drink into their glasses, and Tamlin struck up another conversation.

Almost immediately after the servant filled the Queen's glass, one of her guards was at her side, lifting the drink, and testing it for poison. The servant girl stiffened perceptibly, though her hands remained steady. Everyone else at the table ignored the intrusion, except for Lucien and Feyre, who watched the male's movements closely. The guard and the servant girl finished their duties simultaneously, both leaving the table swiftly, and re-stationing themselves at the edge of the courtyard.

Throughout the conversation, Feyre found her gaze drawn to the Queen's guards. She reached out with her mind again, but was still unable to garner any more information.

"Lord Tamlin, it appears as though your fiance is quite taken with my males." The Queen said smoothly.

Feyre was shaken out of her internal concentration, and turned her attention to the Queen, who watched her intently. A silent goad. The conversation faded into silence, with the steady trickle of running water from the fountain behind them keeping tempo.

Feyre glanced at Tamlin, and blushed slightly. "It's not everyday I get a new subject" she replied somewhat sheepishly. The Queen raised her eyebrows almost humorously- as if she knew Feyre were lying.

"Our Feyre is quite the painter." Ianthe's voice chimed pridefully. Tamlin looked at Feyre lovingly, causing bile to rise in her throat.

"Why, in a court as grand as this, there must be plenty for you to paint, Lady Feyre." The Queen implored.

Feyre kept her smile pleasant, while Tamlin and Lucien both stiffened almost imperceptibly. The Queen's eyes bore into Feyre with an unsettling presence, while twisting Tamlin's neatly cultured words into daggers- daggers which the Queen used to slice at Feyre's carefully crafted facade.

Feyre refused to give the Queen the satisfaction. "With so many things going on lately, I try to stay close to the manor, in case I'm ever needed." She felt Tamlin and Lucien's gazes fall upon her, no doubt remembering the many times she had begged for them to take her on their trips- begged to be taken _away_ from the manor.

She swallowed thickly, and reached under the table for Tamlin's hand- a quiet acknowledgement of his thoughts, and an assurance that she was merely supporting him and defending her actions. He seemed to relax slightly at the touch; however, Lucien continued to watch her with invisible suspicion.

The Queen's eyes brightened slightly, something Feyre had learned to recognize as a warning before one of the Queen's underhanded strikes. But before the Queen could pry at Feyre's statement, Feyre sighed delicately and took a sip from the glass in her hand. "I can't decide if you're fortunate or unfortunate for having arrived so close to the Spring solstice." She contemplated sweetly. "The many preparations and celebrations make it one of our busiest times of the season."

Recognizing her cue, Ianthe immediately jumped in. "Indeed," she said. "The solstices are the most beautiful days of the year. It's such a shame that you won't be experiencing them in their fullest..." And from there, the high priestess continued to prattle on about the many festivities and events that the Queen would be missing.

Feyre listened with forced interest while Ianthe spoke, and found herself slightly disappointed that the only betrayal of the Queen's annoyance was a single twitch in her jaw.

Once everyone finished their drinks, Lucien having practically downed his in one breath, Tamlin decided that the tour was over, and offered to walk the Queen back to the manor. The Queen refused, leaving the courtyard as eventfully as she arrived, with her guards in tow. Soon after, Lucien and Ianthe left as well, leaving Tamlin and Feyre alone with the steady gurgle of the fountain behind them.

Feyre stood from the table and perched on the edge of the fountain. She watched her reflection in the fountain until she sensed Tamlin's presence sitting beside her. She turned to him, but he was the one who said it first. "I'm sorry that I've kept you so out of the loop lately." He said. Feyre clenched her warming hands in the folds of her skirts.

"The other day, I told you I would explain what had happened. Why I... lost control. And I didn't. I'm sorry for that."

Feyre let her features harden- only a miniscule betrayal of the rage that roiled beneath her skin. She was done allowing Tamlin to make excuses. She was much more than done with Tamlin and the Spring Court, but even a loving fiance who was still loyal to her High Lord would be tired of being pushed aside.

Tamlin looked in the direction the Queen had left as he spoke. "I know you've seen it." He said. "The resemblance between her and Amarantha." He paused, no doubt experiencing an involuntary shudder akin to Feyre's. At least he wasn't entirely blind, she seethed inwardly.

"We have to get her out of here as soon as possible. The Spring Court is fragile enough with the transition to an alliance with Hybern, and I don't want her or her males or that prisoner to get in the way."

Feyre watched as Tamlin drew inward slightly, as if preparing himself to continue.

"Negotiations were very much one-sided." He continued. "In the best interests of the court and our alliance, I accepted her terms almost immediately. I ended negotiations with little debate on our half, and now she knows that we want her to leave soon. It puts us at a disadvantage."

Feyre held her breath, her imagination flitting from horrible scenario to horrible scenario. Her voice was quieter than the fountain when she asked "What where her terms?"

Tamlin paused. "I gave her and her soldiers access to search through every room in the manor, with the exception of the treasury and the war room."

Feyre was taken aback- relief bursting in the back of her mind. The terms were not nearly as horrible as what she had conjured in her mind. But then it dawned on her...

"What is she looking for?" She asked, even though she already knew the answer.

Tamlin let loose an airy scoff, laced with a sudden weariness that surprised Feyre."- a black obsidian stone and an amulet with a white stag on it," He said.

He shook his head in what may have been humorous disbelief, or apprehensive annoyance. "-the Queen is going through all this trouble for a piece of rock and a necklace."


	17. PART 15: FEYRE

_**(I acknowledge that some of the descriptions and dialogue in this chapter are pulled directly from the text of**_ _ **A Court of Wings and Ruin**_ _ **)**_

Just as Tamlin had announced, the first Hybern delegation arrived the next day, not a minute past noon. As Jurian and two Hybern commanders winnowed into the gravel of the front drive and strutted through the manor doors, Feyre couldn't help but think that maybe Tamlin was onto something with wanting to get the Queen out of the Spring Court as soon as possible.

The introductions were filled with tense words and underhanded cuts, but Feyre's attention was solely on the two commanders. They were high fae in appearance, with the same ruddy skin and inky black hair as their king; however, their eyes- vacant and unfeeling- were what caught her notice. It was a darkness honed by a millennia of cruelty.

Jurian presented them "-Their Highnesses, Prince Dagdan and Princess Brannagh, nephew and niece to the King of Hybern."

The twins had come to inspect the wall and evaluate the position from which they would use the cauldron- from which they would destroy the barrier between Prythian and the mortal realms. Feyre snarled in her head- that Tamlin actually believed Feyre would stomach Hybern's decimation of the human realm for the sake of the Spring Court- for him.

If Feyre had to appreciate one thing about the Hybern delegates, it was that they didn't flit around with formal dialogue and pleasantries. The princess immediately requested sentries to show them the locations of the holes.

"Lucien and I can take you," Feyre offered.

Tamlin whipped his head to her, and she waited for the refusal- the shutdown. But it never came. He merely gestured to Lucien "My emissary knows the wall as well as any sentry."

Feyre didn't leave any room for debate. "We'll leave tomorrow after breakfast," she told the princess. "-With a few sentries as well." Tamlin loosened his shoulders, and began leading the new delegation to their rooms. 

... 

Jurian and the Commanders stayed out of sight for the rest of the afternoon. Feyre smiled to herself as she imagined Ianthe cornering them with her many ceremonial plans for the upcoming Summer Solstice.

Feyre was on her way to the gallery, when a series of loud noises drew her attention down one of the corridors. What she saw when she turned the corner gave her pause.

All down the hallway, doors were flung upon, and furniture displaced. None of the decor was broken or thrown about; the rooms hadn't been seized and ransacked. In fact, to an outside set of eyes, perhaps nothing would have looked amiss.

However, for someone intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of the house, the movement of the decor was blatantly obvious. Every couple of minutes, a fae male- one of the Queen's guards- would exit a room, and fling open the door of the next nearest to him, where he then proceeded to continue the search. The guards all worked with lethal efficiency and determination, none of them acknowledging Feyre's presence.

Eventually, Feyre turned and left, now walking with no destination in mind. She assumed that the males' uncharacteristic respect of the Spring Court's property was one of the few conditions Tamlin had made in negotiations.

Otherwise, the animalistic intent on the fae males' faces spoke enough of the potential for mass destruction.

The hallway Feyre had witnessed the search in was on the opposite side of the manor as her rooms. If the males continued with their current system, she reasoned that she had at least a few weeks before they came barging into her chambers, where they would presumably discover the hidden stone.

Still, as Feyre continued walking, while reinforcing the glamours which shielded the wyrdkey, she felt the pressure of time settle heavily onto her shoulders. She had yet to come up with a reasonable plan to remove the stone from the Spring Court.

Her options were running low, and now, so was her time. The Queen's search had already begun. 

... 

The newly arrived delegation may have kept out of sight throughout the afternoon, but that night's evening meal was a different entirety.

The dining hall table was about the fullest Feyre had ever seen it, and the palpable tension seemed to stifle the air. Sitting in that room, bearing witness to the constant underhanded threats and beguiling smiles of the Spring Court and the two delegations made Feyre want to hand the wyrdkey over right then and there. Anything to get this Queen out of the manor. Anything to separate these sadistically cunning and immortal leaders.

With every conversational topic and plate of food that passed across the table, someone's temper or ego rose another degree- Jurian's getting the hottest the fastest.

Many of the Queen's guards watched the commanders with outward hostility. Once or twice, Feyre saw the Queen give a flick of her wrist in some sort of hand signal, as if calling off her males.

It took two courses and a series of blatant threats for Feyre to realize that the Commanders and Jurian were being intentionally provocative.

Ever since their arrival, Feyre found herself checking her mental shields every few minutes, but she reinforced them once again.

Tamlin and Lucien's minds, however, were not protected.

As soon as she had the thought, Feyre felt a tap on her shields, trying to get through her impenetrable wall of black adamant.

She brushed her mind up against Tamlin and Lucien's and immediately felt two black oily tendrils shooting for their minds- thrown from the Commanders like spears. She slammed two walls of adamant down, and the two Commanders jolted physically as their powers collided. They both turned to Feyre, and she narrowed her eyes in slight recognition. Then she gouged a black claw into their walls of white bone, and they flinched again.

Feyre pulled away, a dull headache forming at the back of her temple, as both groups settled back into their chairs. Noticing the sudden silence, Tamlin asked what was wrong. Feyre feigned sweet ignorance.

Jurian laughed into his bowl of soup and gave Feyre a leering wink, while the Queen merely sat in silence, the corner of her lips tilted upward slightly, as if enjoying the show. 

... 

Since her _time away,_ Feyre's old rooms had become overrun with foliage, so she was assigned the chambers across from Lucien.

After the evening meal, they found themselves walking side by side on the way to their rooms. He was the first to break the heavy silence.

"Hybern's commanders..." he started.

"-are horrible." she finished somewhat hysterically.

She continued. "How could Tamlin willingly let monsters like that into his home-our home?" She gestured desperately.

Lucien remained quiet, but his eyes flashed with anger akin to her own- not all of which was for show.

They turned a corner and passed by one of the halls that had been searched. Somewhere, the sound of doors being opened and furniture being moved echoed across the tall ceilings as the process continued.

She took a deep breath, reigning in her contempt. "Has the Queen found what she's looking for?" she asked, despite knowing otherwise.

Lucien shook his head, his posture tensing with more anger.

"Not from what I've been told. I've tried talking to Tamlin- this manor has two-hundred plus rooms- how she can think that they'll find something as small as a stone or an amulet- or that her misplaced items would even be in our possession is madness!" His voice rose. "-What will she do if she doesn't find it in the house? Will she then scour the gardens, and the forest?"

He turned to her, his eyes flaring and his anger now palpable. Apparently, Feyre wasn't the only one who had spent some time thinking. "- Can you imagine putting any of the rest of the Spring Court at the mercy of her primal thugs?"

Feyre merely nodded in acquiescence.

"And now with the Hybern delegation..." his jaw clenched "...Jurian." He shook his head, "If we can't get her out of here soon, this whole manor is going up in flames."

They reached the doors to their rooms, and he seemed to come back to himself. "Get some rest, Feyre. We head out tomorrow."

He swung into his chambers and shut the doors, throwing the hallway into tense silence.

Before the Queen had arrived, Feyre had been developing a plan to drive a wedge between Lucien and Tamlin- to weaken the Spring Court from the top down.

But now Feyre had bigger, more dangerous, things on her mind. So she, too, swept into her rooms without another word and closed the doors with a soft, resounding click. 

... 

Feyre awoke the next morning from an uneasy sleep. She had tossed and turned all night, hyper conscious of how close the chamber which held the key was to her bed- of how easy it would be for the Queen to find it once her guards searched her rooms.

She thought about the possibility of moving the key to a room that had already been searched, but she could hardly move anywhere in the manor without noticing the presence of the foreign males , and with so many powerful eyes and ears in the manor, she didn't want to risk it.

Finally the sun rose, and Feyre was able to justify getting out of bed.

She dressed hurriedly- pulling on pants and boots and throwing her hair into a braid.

She was relieved to put on something other than a dress for once. If nothing else came from the trip to the wall- at least she had that.

She was strapping her lone dagger to her side- the small bejeweled thing being the only weapon she could carry without drawing suspicion- when a knock sounded at her door.

Throwing a glance at the clock to confirm that she wasn't running late, she opened the door, expecting Lucien or a servant who had been sent to retrieve her.

To Feyre's surprise, one of the Queen's guards stood in the hallway. Panic crashed through her veins, and she fought the urge to look down the hallway for signs of the hallway being searched. She had thought she had a few more days before they reached her rooms.

She lifted her eyes to the towering male and forced her muscles to relax. "Can I help you?" she asked.

His deep voice echoed indifferently down the empty hallway. "My Queen has sent me as a gift."

Feyre was stunned into brief silence.

The guard's stillness was disconcerting, and though his expression held no interest, his eyes watched her with immense intensity as her expression flitted from one embarrassing horror into the next.

"-to paint," he finally elaborated.

Feyre's eyebrows narrowed slightly. The Queen had sent one of her guards as a _gift...?_

It has not escaped Feyre's notice that the Queen treated her males more as property than individuals, but this seemed to cross a new line.

If the lack of inflection in his voice way any indication, then the male standing in her door jamb detested the idea as much as she. Feyre found herself wondering, not for the first time, what the Queen had done to warrant such unwavering loyalty from so many immortal warriors.

"Why, I'm not painting today." She glanced down at herself, as if the outfit was explanation in itself. "-I should be available in a few days, after I've finished with some business. Please give your Queen my gratitude."

She gave a small apologetic smile and began to close her door, but the male pushed past her arm and strolled into her rooms.

Feyre whipped around, her hand still clutching the edge of the door.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Ignoring her, he prowled farther into her room, his battle gear swishing with each movement. He turned in a circle, inspecting the room with a dark predatory gaze.

"My Queen insists that you use your gift right away", he repeated after he'd finished his brief inspection.

Holding back a bitter retort, Feyre reached into his mind and tried to coax him into leaving. When he made no indication of moving, Feyre pulled back. Either his will was stronger than her powers, or something else at play was.

She willed ice into her veins. "I'm sorry. I am physically unavailable to paint you today. It'll have to wait."

Feyre waited another moment, but the male made no indication of leaving.

She grabbed her pack that had been sitting on the chair, and started to leave. She stopped in the doorway when the guard took a seat on her chaise.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he seemed to sense her question before she asked it. "I'm waiting here until you return."

Feyre huffed a breath. "If you insist on waiting, can you at least have the decency to wait _outside_ of my personal chambers?" He turned his head and met her eyes with a fierce intensity that was answer enough. He planned to stay exactly where he was until she painted him- no doubt because his Queen had ordered it so.

Feyre wondered what game the Queen was playing. Was this a ploy to get access to her rooms? To force her to miss the trip to the wall with the Hybern delegation?

Maybe she wanted to see what depths Feyre would go to to keep others out of her rooms. Or quite possibly, she simply wanted to keep closer tabs on the Lady of the Spring Court.

Feyre forced herself not to look at the tapestry which concealed the wyrdkey- mere feet away from where the fae warrior sat- and prayed to the cauldron that he couldn't smell the anxiety which clouded her mind.

If she left with Lucien to go to the wall, then one of the Queen's guards would spend days within finding distance of the key. If she stayed behind, then she might miss valuable information on Hybern's plans- information that could be vital to her own court.

Feyre considered having some of the Spring Court guards remove the male, but then what would it matter if Tamlin had given the Queen free reign to search every room anyways?

Feyre imagined quickly what might happen if the wyrdkey was found in her possession, and knew that she would have to stay behind.

She could not risk this male discovering the wyrdkey. Lucien would go to the wall, and he or Tamlin would relay the information to her at some point. She could explain missing the trip, but she could not explain hiding an object that the Queen had been explicitly searching for.

Feyre shot up a silent curse and told the male to wait. She hurried to Lucien's rooms across the hall, relieved to find him still there. She explained to him that she would not be able to accompany them to the wall, for fear of gravely insulting the Queen by not accepting her _gift_. Though not without one of his signature looks of suspicion, Lucien was quick to agree, and after warning her to be careful, he took off down the hall to meet the Hybern delegation.

Feyre returned to her rooms to find the male still lounging on her chaise, now with a book in his hands. She glanced to the empty space on her shelf and didn't fight the irritation in her voice. "Alright. I've cancelled my plans to paint you... though I don't understand why it has to be now."

She tossed her pack back onto the chair and started across the room to the wall with all of her art supplies. She began scooping the loose brushes and paints into the tote.

Without turning to face him, she asked bitterly "Do I have to paint you dirtying my furniture as well, or can we go somewhere with decent lighting that won't leave my bedspread smelling like fumes?"

She gathered the supplies tote in her arms and stood up. The guard closed the book and looked at her for a moment before nodding his head in allowance.

She, too, nodded in answer and strolled out of her rooms, the tote rattling in her arms.

Soon after, she felt the presence of the male following closely behind, and she forced herself not to loose a breath of relief. Every step they took away from her chambers and the discovery of the wyrdkey helped to release the tension in her shoulders and cool the pulsing in her veins. 

... 

Feyre and the foreign male saw few others as she led him throughout the manor and to the outside drive. When they did pass someone in the hall, it was usually a small cluster of servants who, upon seeing the guard and lady, seemed to look away and change direction abruptly. If not from intimidation of the male warrior himself, then from the assumption that he and Feyre were associating in a matter of business in which eavesdropping would be punishable.

They pushed through a set of external doors and began down the gravel drive. Feyre slowed her gait slightly as she swept her eyes across across the treeline, looking for an ideal spot to position the male.

She was about to head to a small clearing on the left, when her eyes caught on a relatively small stone structure along the edge of the property. She changed her direction and started across the grass toward it.

The structure was a sort of crumbling wall made up of light gray stones and the dark foliage that grew between them. Probably the remnants of a storage building or other used by the servants before Amarantha's reign.

Feyre stopped in front of the wall and looked over her shoulder at the male. Everything about him was dark- dark hair and dark eyes- which she decided would contrast nicely against the stone.

Feyre directed the guard to the shaded area in front of the wall, then stepped backward until her canvas was in the light-outside of the wall's shadow.

She told him to get comfortable, and the male proceeded to cross his arms and lean against the wall.

Then Feyre began to paint.

She started with the stone background and meticulously worked her way inward. Before she knew it, she slipped into what she considered her killing calm. Except instead of a blade, she wielded a brush.

Soon into drawing his features, she became unable to shake a sense of familiarity. As she began the complex process of copying his facial features, she realized why.

The sharp edge of his jawline, the thick arch to his eyes, and the slight curve to his nose. The similarities began stacking into place, and by the time two hours had passed, she had no doubt that this male was related to the Queen's guard named Fenrys.

However, where Fenrys's hair was golden against their bronze skin, this male's was dark.

When she and Fenrys had spoken, he had been so warm and lively- energy seeping out of his arrogant posture and curved smile. The male sitting in front of her was quite the opposite- quiet and reserved- almost thoughtful. The darkness to Fenrys's light.

She opened her mouth to ask him about it, but suddenly thought better of it. She continued to paint.

The painting was finished in a mere handful of hours- several times during which she offered the guard a break, but all of which he declined. Feyre finished her last few strokes and leaned back to examine her work.

The end result was a full body portrait of the male leaning against the crumbling stone wall. Most of the painting was shrouded in darkness from the wall's shadow, except for a single beam of light slipping through the cracks and the resulting reflections against his battle gear.

Throughout their hours together, Feyre had frequently brushed up against his mind; though she discovered nothing new, she consistently felt the animalistic intensity of his shape-shifting abilities, which prompted her to paint his eyes a wolfish yellow. In context, it appeared as though his eyes were reflecting the light of the sun beam.

The overall work was dark and eerie, and for someone who spent most of her time painting flowers, Feyre felt a strange sense of pride for it.

She began wiping off her brushes and invited to male to look. With no indication that he'd spend hours standing completely still, he pushed off the wall with unhindered grace and joined her in front of the canvas. His face gave nothing away as he inspected the painting.

Mere seconds later, and without a single word or motion of acknowledgement, he turned on his heel and started back up to the manor- his weapons reflecting the light of the setting sun in a similar fashion to her painting.

Feyre turned back to the easel, and looking at the darkness in which she had shrouded him, wondered if she should have chosen the colorful tree background instead. 

... 

The next few days were silent agony for Feyre- walking around the manor while Lucien dealt with the Hybern delegation at the wall and Tamlin participated in business throughout the Court. An opportunity had arisen for her to spy on Hybern, and the Queen had ripped it away from her.

At all hours of the day and night, her guards could be found-or heard- marching between hallways and rooms, scouring every nook and cranny for the stone and necklace- the wyrdkeys. What Feyre had originally assumed would be weeks of time had dwindled to a handful of days. She wondered when- or even if the males ever slept. The Queen had them searching the manor like a non-stop machine.

It occurred to Feyre often that she might search for the second wyrdkey herself, but again, she couldn't risk drawing further suspicion from either foreign delegation. And she assumed that if the necklace were in the manor, then she would have sensed it the same way she had the stone.

During times of the day when she wasn't particularly doing anything, which had become quite often, she found herself checking and strengthening her shields and glamours every two minutes or so- to the point where it almost became an obsession. Every day that the males came closer to searching her rooms helped to fuel Feyre's anxiety.

She saw Tamlin only at meals, which she began to believe was for the best. Lucien's words echoed against her own. She didn't want to ask the High Lord what would happen if- _when_ -the Queen didn't find what she was looking for. Didn't want to ask who else he would allow to be put at the mercy of Queen Maeve and her fae warriors.

The knowledge that Feyre had to get the stone out of the Spring Court pressed on her- the plotting of ways to get rid of it clawing at the back of her mind at all hours of the day.

But now that two enemy threats were lodged in Tamlin's territory, she also felt it even more essential than ever that she stay. The future of the war might very well depend on it.

Feyre paced her room one night, continuing to contemplate this very problem. She could think of no scenario that would allow her to contact Rhysand without drawing large amounts of unwanted attention. She still couldn't risk using the bond.

She stopped pacing in front of her balcony doors and threw back the curtains, allowing the moonlight to illuminate her room. She looked up at the night sky and swallowed thickly.

She quietly opened the balcony doors and stepped outside.

Clutching the railing with both hands, she closed her eyes and tilted her head backward, while breathing deeply.

She opened her eyes and smiled up to the stars, imagining a similar scene from another time, in another city that lived under the starlight.

Though not using their actual bond, Feyre sent a small prayer up to the sky, willing it to reach Rhysand- wherever he was.

She took another deep breath and turned to go back to her chambers, when something made her stop.

In the distance, a warm light radiated from within the gardens- a set of lanterns being used by guards to keep watch. Though she couldn't see the group of foreigners from that particular balcony, Feyre knew what the scene looked like: five immortal fae warriors tasked with watching one prisoner wrapped head to toe in iron chains. A single fae woman who sat comfortably on the ground in the center of a stone circle and continued to hold herself with the dignity of an empress. A powerful female who already knew the risks of allowing the wyrdkeys to fall into the wrong hands.

Feyre was struck with an idea. She, herself, could not leave the Spring Court or risk communicating directly with the Night Court. But if someone else could transfer the stone and a message to Rhysand without implicating her...

Feyre was suddenly overcome with a sense of certainty. As she shut her balcony doors and pulled the curtains closed, she began developing a plan. She knew just the person to get the wyrdkey out of the Spring Court... but first, Feyre would have to help her escape.


	18. PART 16: ROWAN

The two fae sentries reached the cluster of boulders that marked their final checkpoint and promptly turned around, starting another round. Their mumbling voices echoed against the dense woods.

Rowan Whiethorn, Prince of Doranelle, mate to Aelin Ashryver Galaythnius, and now Prince Consort of Terrasen, hopped down from his perch and began gliding from tree to tree, silently tracking the soldiers once more.

The soldiers stationed around the palace and throughout the village completed their duties with fierce vigilance, marching their rounds in stony silence and with watchful intensity.

But out there, in the far outreaches of Doranelle where disorderly soldiers were sent to patrol, the males talked freely. The eastern edge of the kingdom was surrounded by dense fae forests at the bases of the Cambrian Mountains. The pairing made an impenetrable boundary that warded off all potential threats, so the male sentries passed the inevitably uneventful time with conversation. Rowan followed and listened from the treetops.

It hadn't taken long for him, Lorcan and Gavriel to agree upon reconnaissance positions and a rendezvous date and location, but it still hadn't been fast enough. Not while Aelin was at Maeve's mercy. Rowan's talons tightened, gouging into the tree bark.

Immediately after they made their plans, Rowan shifted and set off for Doranelle. It didn't seem likely that Maeve would return to her palace so soon- she hardly ever did anything that directly-, but it still remained a primary source of intel.

Nevertheless, Rowan spent the entire flight searching for signs of Maeve's passage: clues that Fenrys would have left behind. But there had been nothing.

Either Fenrys had been physically unable to leave signs, or they hadn't returned to Doranelle at all.

When Rowan arrived, he remained in his hawk form- flying around the kingdom, watching and listening for any information on the dark Queen's location. So far, he had yet to learn anything of real use.

Rowan's blood boiled with the inactivity; he had to fight the incessant urge to barge into the palace and carve the information out of the guards himself. Unfortunately, stealth had been the agreed-upon tactic.

So until then, Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius lurked in the shadows, where he followed and listened.


	19. PART 17: FEYRE

Feyre found herself coming to despise evening meals. Once again, she was sitting at the table listening to the delegations jab at each other over their bowls of soup. The constant beguile was insufferable, and Feyre found her mind wandering often.

She glanced over to Lucien and saw him doing much the same. The wall party had returned after their trip to the first breach; they planned to restock on provisions and head out to the second in the morning.

The Hybern highnesses were cryptic about what had occurred on the trip- only saying that they intended on evaluating both holes before making any decisions. Feyre had yet to get Lucien's side of the events, but intended to later that night.

At some point during the meal, Feyre's attention was drawn across the table to where the Queen sat with her soldiers hovering behind her. Her wineglass stood untouched, and her males edgier than usual.

Accustomed to the fae queen's taste for luxury, Feyre found the refusal of wine as odd. She casually took a sip of soup and reached out with her mind, brushing against the Queen's males.

She was immediately swept with a wave of malicious intent toward the Hybern twins. Their protective instincts were on high alert, and the predatory intensity with which they watched their Queen made it difficult for Feyre to decipher the perceived threat.

Once she filtered out some of the emotions, Feyre figured out that something had been put in the wine. Some kind of poison that weakened magical abilities.

She was immediately intrigued. Her gaze jumped back across the table to where the Queen's soldiers threw murderous glares at Dagdan and Brannagh.

Feyre looked down at her own untouched glass, suddenly grateful for her distaste for fae wine, and wondered why the Queen had not said something about the poison.

She turned to her left and saw Tamlin setting down his wineglass, its contents nearly empty; it dawned on her. Whether out of wicked curiosity or her own underhanded plot, the Queen clearly had no intention of informing her hosts of the contaminated drink.

Feyre opened her mouth to warn Tamlin and Lucien, but stopped when she realized that she had no way to explain her accusation. She felt the weight of eyes and inconspicuously turned to the pointed gaze of one of the Queen's males. Fenrys.

From across the long dining room, he gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. Feyre was being baited.

She forced herself to swallow her warning and returned to her plate.

For the rest of the meal, she paid extra attention to Tamlin and Lucien, watching for any signs of poison and scanning their minds for a mental indication.

After a while, Feyre relaxed. If Dagdan and Brannagh had put something in the wine, it wasn't fast-acting, and she could think of no motive they would have for killing Tamlin so early on in their partnership. It was possible that the poison really did only weaken magical abilities.

If that was the case, Feyre felt secure enough in waiting to warn Tamlin and Lucien until after the meal had finished.

The night progressed, and Feyre's mind continued to wander back to the concept of a magically weakening poison, and what it might mean for her plans- for the war against Hybern entirely.

Every once in awhile, Queen Maeve cast glances in Feyre's direction, waiting for her to take the lure. But Feyre was already lost in thought, developing a plan that, for once, just might work.

...

The dark hallway echoed with the sharp thud of Feyre's knuckles against the wooden door. The door swung open, light spilling from the room.

"Feyre." Lucien said by way of greeting.

"Can I come in?" she asked.

Lucien's russet eye whirled as he looked down at her. Then, with a slow nod of his head, he pushed the door open wider and motioned her inside.

Rather than take one of the chairs, Feyre paced by the fireplace. Lucien settled across the room, where he watched her disdainfully.

Feyre stopped her pacing and turned to the emissary. "I have reason to believe that Dagdan and Brannagh are poisoning us."

Lucien's eye widened, and Feyre jumped into her crafted explanation. When she was done telling her story of eavesdropping on servants and careful observation, Lucien had crossed the room to stand in front of the fire as well.

He watched his hands contemplatively.

"Do you feel any different?" She asked.

He shook his head. "Not that I can say. Though perhaps, it is too soon to tell." He fisted his hands. "How do we know that it was only in the wine?"

Feyre replied, "We don't."

The room lulled into silence as they both considered their situation, Feyre mentally crossing her fingers that Lucien would come to the same conclusion on his own.

Minutes passed before Lucien broke the quiet. "We have to get a sample of this poison... to find out what it's made of, what it's doing to us, if there's an antidote."

Lucien and Feyre made eye contact, a silent agreement on the last purpose: _to see if it can be replicated._

Lucien continued. "I think you should stay here tomorrow."

Feyre started, but Lucien cut her off. "I know," he said, his eyes reflecting sincerely. "- but with Dagdan and Brannagh off examining the wall, it's the most opportune time for you to search their rooms- see if they've stored any of this poison in the manor."

Feyre stilled. "Or," he started again. "If it isn't Hybern behind the poison at all..." He looked at her meaningfully. "-then, you need to be here, keeping an eye on things."

Feyre nodded reluctantly. She had good reason to believe that the Queen wasn't behind the poisoned wine, but couldn't explain that to Lucien without revealing herself as well.

Feyre rubbed her arms, the room chilling as the fire began to die. "Are we not going to warn Tamlin?" she asked.

Lucien took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. "The fact that you came to me first tells me that you're already of the same opinion." He crossed his arms. "Involving Tamlin this early on would... complicate things." They looked at each other knowingly, guilt leaking into Lucien's expression.

Feyre nodded in consolation.

Lucien cleared his throat. "Alright. Tomorrow, you'll stay behind and see what you can find in the Hyberns' absence, and I'll poke around the campsite as much as I can while we're out."

"Agreed," Feyre concluded.

They slipped into silence once more, their tasks looming in the air. Feyre glanced at the clock and began heading out.

Lucien stopped her. "Thank you," he said, his russet eye seeming to focus on her for a moment before returning to its usual spin.

Feyre looked up at him steadily. "Good night, Lucien."

Despite having her back to him while leaving his room and crossing the hall, Feyre hid the smile that threatened to break on her face. She told herself that she would celebrate once the rest of her plan fell into place.


	20. PART 18: AELIN

What Aelin wouldn't have given to be in an actual prison.

If Maeve had taken the High Lord's offer of a holding cell inside the manor, Aelin would have at least had _something_ to go off of. A single walk through the house would have provided a world of intel. But trapped in those gods-damned gardens, with nothing to see but green hedges and flowers- she had almost no information to work with.

The disorientation was starting to get to her. Aelin survived on always being one step ahead. She never entered any situation without taking a full inventory of her surroundings- every single strength, weakness, asset, and liability. The moment she entered a room, sometimes even before, she had all the possible variables cataloged.

Now she was stuck in an unfamiliar world, surrounded by unfamiliar beings with unfamiliar powers, and she couldn't even get a rutting basic layout of where she was.

She cursed herself for becoming trapped in such ignorance and made a silent promise to never again find herself at such a disadvantage.

While plotting escape strategies in her head, Aelin reached yet another dead end and mentally crossed her current plan off her list. Ten days since Maeve had dragged her through the portal, and Aelin had yet to develop any sort of feasible means of escape.

Working with so little knowledge, everything she came up with were just shots in the dark. She felt like she was trying to grasp at straws, when all she had was a handful of rose petals.

Her mind continually wandered back to the fae woman- _Feyre_. Even through the iron chains, Aelin could sense the woman's power. Magical affinities that no doubt made for quite the formidable opponent. Aelin had suspected underlying complexities during the first-day welcoming parade, but her suspicions were only confirmed once the woman had delivered the tray of food.

Aelin kicked herself thinking about it afterwards, but in that moment, she had seen something in the woman's eyes that had made her reach out. Something that she could only ascertain as an inexplicable sense of trust.

Aelin knew the second they made contact that, somehow, the woman was looking into her mind- reading her thoughts.

And Aelin laid it all out- opened her mind and splayed her entire story. Maeve, Erawan, the valg, the wyrdkeys- all of it. The whole rutting shit-pile of current and soon-to-come catastrophes.

Aelin had sensed Feyre's growing panic and fear, but she only let go once her whole story had been revealed.

She had known that Feyre would understand.

Some unknown force had spurred Aelin into revealing everything. And now, she couldn't help the dreadful sensation that her survival might depend on a complete stranger.

Aelin crossed another plan off her mental list and started again.


	21. PART 19: FEYRE

When the group arrived back from the wall three days later, Lucien was irate. Feyre visited him in his rooms later that night, and he ranted about the fruitlessness of their trip. Not only had Lucien been unable to find anything resembling the powder she suspected the Hyberns were using to poison them, but at one of their camps, Dagdan and Brannagh had slaughtered three innocents. Three Children of the Blessed who had approached the wall.

Feyre's blood boiled as Lucien told her how he has been unable to deter the bloodthirsty royals, and that they spent the rest of the journey relishing their kills. Feyre swore to herself that the Commanders would have a particularly painful death. If and when the opportunity presented itself.

Lucien's chambers grew even more solemn as Feyre announced that her attempts had been no more successful. Against her own expectations, Feyre had found an opening to search Dagdan and Brannagh's rooms; however, her search had revealed nothing.

The shadows seemed to darken across his room, as they both slipped into deep thought. Eventually, Feyre lifted her skirts and left, a mutual agreement to keep their eyes and ears open hovering in the air. Her mind raced as she took a short detour on the way to her rooms, the hollow click of her steps mirroring her thoughts.

Feyre only had a day or two before the Queen's search extended to the corridor which contained her rooms, and neither she nor Lucien had been able to get ahold of the Hyberns' poison. She had tried to stop herself from including the substance in her plans- it was too unreliable of a variable- but she couldn't help herself. Now all of her escape strategies that had any level of competence hinged on the use of a substance that can weaken magical abilities.

Feyre paused in the middle of the hallway and ran her hands over her face, mentally correcting herself. Everything- Feyre's ability to get Aelin out of the Spring Court, and the wyrdkey out of Maeve's reach- Feyre's fate in the Spring Court entirely- _everything_ hinged on the discovery of this poison.

As Feyre started back toward her own rooms, she began to make a separate set of mental plans. Plans for the very likely possibility that she had to abandon her spying and return to the Night Court with the stone and the very little intel she has managed the gather. She longed to contact Rhysand through the bond, but the Queen's presence still had her too concerned to risk it. She figured that if it came down to it, she would be better off not giving anyone even the slightest idea that she was leaving.

Feyre reached down inside of herself, feeling for her long-suppressed powers. The existence of the poison hung over her head in more ways than one. Constantly dampening her magic in front of the Queen's soldiers meant that Feyre had no inclination of weather or not her powers were intact. She didn't feel any different, but neither did Lucien, and she knew for a fact that he must have consumed a fair amount in the wine on the night she discovered the poison's use.

Suddenly, Feyre was outside her rooms, having spent the night-time walk lost in thought. She slipped inside and went straight to the bathtub, untying her dress as she went.

Feyre no longer bothered to look around for Alis. A couple weeks into her arrival, the wooded faery had asked Feyre for a warning before she took whatever retribution she desired from the Spring Court. Alis had always been receptive- observant and caring enough to see when Feyre was deteriorating, and Feyre often found herself relying on her warm-hearted nature for a reprieve from the rest of the court. Four days ago, Feyre had heavily implied that Alis leave very soon. The next day, the faery was gone.

Feyre's bath was short-lived, it's only purpose for cleaning off dirt and sweat that wasn't really there. Feyre often thought that her bathing habits alone were symbolic of how much she had changed from her human self, who had spent days-sometimes weeks- without going through the hassle of baths.

She stalked out of the tile room, water dripping down her back in small rivulets. She stepped over the skirts of the dress she had left on the floor and was making her way to the armoire, when something caught her eye. She turned and crossed the room to the chaise that sat in the corner.

Laying in the same spot the dark male she'd been forced to paint had been lounging, was a small drawstring bag and a folded card of paper. Feyre switched her towel to her other hand, and delicately lifted the card.

Written in black, elegant script, the card simply read: _I'll be calling in my question soon._

The message needed no signature.

Feyre set the card back onto the chair and lifted the small velvet bag. She held her breath as she slowly pulled on the silk strings and dipped a finger into its contents.

Feyre couldn't help the smile that spread across her face as she lifted her finger and saw that is was covered in a remarkably fine, almost translucently white powder.


	22. PART 20: ROWAN

It took fewer than twenty-four hours of flying around and listening to mindless blather from soldiers for Rowan's impatience to supercede his reconnaissance strategy. It took fewer than twenty minutes for him to dispatch the northern sentries and break through the palace's magic barriers. In his hawk form, he slipped through a narrow opening in the north tower and shifted mid-flight, knocking out two more males with a single graceful swing. After running down a series of narrow corridors, the ceilings finally let up into the palace's internal cavernous hallways. Rowan shifted once more and shot upward, where he glided between the pale stone sills of the highests windows, using the concentrated light to hide his white figure.

Bombastic courtesans and low-ranking soldiers passed below him, but he paid no attention. Cutting through the warm, stiflingly fragrant air, Rowan weaved between the jasmine-laced pillars and colorful glass lights. He moved his wings as little as possible, so not to disturb the curtains more than the constant breeze already did.

Soaring even closer to the arched ceilings, Rowan pushed his senses further outward and immediately knew that Aelin was not in the palace. He did not sense the formidable power of Aelin, Maeve, or any of his past blood-sworn comrades. Even if Aelin was being held in captivity and her powers oppressed, Maeve would not have left her without a number of powerful guards. Rowan resigned himself to the likelihood that his mate was not in Doranelle at all.

Nevertheless, taking advantage of the palace's lack of experienced arms, Rowan delved deeper. Most of the palace was exposed to the elements, the rooms sometimes more like a veranda overlooking the vibrant city, because they didn't have any structural walls- only large pillars. He swiftly made his way through the center of the palace, constantly altering his flight pattern to avoid detection by other fae.

As he neared a darker side of the palace, the environment began to change. The lavish decor and streams of water slowly dissipated, and the ever-present music that emanated from the city faded away to just the muted sound of trickling water.

The ceilings pressed downward, and the pillars became far and fewer. Rowan's senses sharpened as his instincts led him down a series of corridors. Upon reaching the corridor which contained access to the dungeons, he shifted back, continuing his forward momentum on two legs.

Rowan hesitated before an iron-wrought door toward the end of the hall. He knew that it had been fortified with some level of ward, and that his passing through may alert someone to his presence. He swung it open and walked through anyways.

Immediately, he was struck with a wave of stimuli. His senses took a moment to adjust to the intensity, and he reconsidered the magic barrier which now separated him from the rest of the palace. He let the heavy door shut behind him and stalked forward. The pale stone of Doranelle gave way completely to dark, flecked stone, lit only by sporadic torches.

Rowan's body contracted as a single scent became more distinct. _Aelin._ It wasn't potent enough to be her physically, but her scent sharpened intensely, meaning that she had definitely been there. Farther down the stone room, where light from torches implied multiple passages, three armored males appeared. Rowan dispatched them with ease and continued moving forward.

Feeling with his senses to predict other guards, Rowan tracked her scent to what he knew was one of the deepest recesses of the dungeons. So far underground, the torch lights barely penetrated the darkness, and the air felt heavy with moisture.

Somewhere in his mind, his training pumped through his veins, analyzing the solitary exit route and disadvantageous fighting conditions his impatience had led him to. But that considerably faint pulse was nothing compared to the roaring which burned beneath his skin as he reached what would have been Aelin's cell.

The thick iron door was wide open, revealing a cold, oppressive, metal box. Rowan's body constricted, his hand tightening around the hilt of his blade and a low growl building in the back of his throat. With the door closed, the room would be in impenetrable darkness and devoid of all sounds. Of all sense of time. His predatory instincts urged him to enter and go into contact with the source of her scent- the blood which he knew coated the floor and the shackles attached to the wall-, but his training instincts would not allow himself to walk into a box with his back to the door. Especially one which would completely suppress his magic and senses.

Rowan's body was shaking. In fury and in fear for what had been done- what he had allowed to happen to his mate- _to his Fireheart_.

Breathing Aelin's scent in deeply, Rowan backed away from the containment cell and unsheathed his blade. He had sensed the male's incoming presence the moment the door to the dungeons had been opened. The blood-sworn male had foolishly come alone- probably with the intent of taking Rowan for himself.

Rowan's lips curled behind his canines, as he turned to face his challenger. "Cairn," he growled, the vibrations echoing off the stone walls.

At the end of the hallway, a hulking figure rotated his arm, the torch light glinting off a long blade. The corners of his own mouth pulled into a deranged grin, the black leather of an eye-patch lifting upward. "Prince Rowan," he cooed. "-How nice of you to visit."


	23. PART 21: FEYRE & AELIN

Standing in the entryway to the balcony, Feyre once more overlooked the gardens. Specifically, she watched the near distant courtyard in which Aelin and the Queen's guards maintained their stony residence. A steady, gentle breeze rustled the sheer curtains on the sides of her body and stirred the fragrant air of the manor.

Feyre dug her fingers into the sides of the black velvet bag which she clutched in her hand, feeling the shifting compactness of the powder inside.

Reaching within herself, she tried again to find the bond which connected her and Rhysand. She tugged on and shouted down the line, but their tether had turned wispy and hard to grasp; the effort indulged a thick pounding at the base of her skull. There was no longer any question of whether or not the Hybern's poison- the powder she held in her palm- had made it into her system.

Feyre felt her powers growing thinner and more distant- harder to conjure and hold on to. In the weeks following Queen Maeve's arrival, she had used very little of her magic for fear of revealing herself, so she didn't know how long her powers had been this affected. If the weakening sensation had been upon her for long, or if it really was the sudden infliction which she now felt. She also did not know how far the weakness would go, or how soon she would recover. So all she could do was hope that she maintained enough of her magic for what came next.

First, Feyre called a light wind from across the manor to the center of the gardens, where the courtyard stood. She focused on directing the wind through the flower-abundant bushes and rose gardens, aiming to intensify the sweet, musty scent which Fenrys had informed her could overwhelm the male guard's senses. The night before, testing for herself, Feyre had been unable to detect a noticeable smell to the Hybern's thin powder, but she wanted to lower the risk of detection as much as possible.

She peered at the courtyard in the distance, watching for change among the six figures. When nothing happened, Feyre pulled open the velvet bag and poured the majority of the powder into the cupped palm of her hand. Somewhere in her mind, she imagined a loud, reverberate tolling of a great bell tower or clock watching over her movements.

Again, she called forth a wind, pulling the breeze up to the balcony and across her hands, where it gradually picked up amounts of the white powder and swept them into the air. Releasing the breath that she had been holding, Feyre then began moving the powder-filled air down through the green winding hedges and toward the stone courtyard.

As far as she could tell, Aelin had received her message, for the chained woman's figure remained low to the ground.

The strain the poison had put on Feyre's powers quickly intensified as she carried the powder into the courtyard, spreading the air to reach the space just above all of the males' figures. Her muscles were tense, and the dull throb in her head began to sharpen.

Breathing through the tension, Feyre redirected the light breeze into a slow circular motion within the hedged courtyard to keep the powder from settling lower. When the breeze pattern became stable, she gradually lowered the ring of slowly circulating air until it was level with what Feyre thought would be the tall male warriors' lines of sight.

Feyre stabilized the breeze once more and continued watching intently for any sign of acknowledgement of what she was doing. Fearful uncertainty gnawed at the back of her mind. She'd known that if she had any shot of helping Aelin escape, that she would have to incapacitate the Queen's males. Or at least do something to weaken them. The idea of a poison that could damper magic had struck Feyre like an epiphany; however, she was uncertain of how far the powder would affect the males' unfamiliar powers.

The other point of concern was that Feyre had found no other way to administer the poison. She never saw the males eat or drink, and she was certain that, when they did, it wasn't from the manor kitchens. So, her next available method which could maintain anonymity was through the air. Practicing the night before, Feyre had determined that the white powder was light enough to be carried by the air and fine enough to appear transparent. So inhalation of the poison became her next only tangible idea.

Feyre could only hope that the males inhaled enough of the powder to have a fairly acute reaction, and that by keeping the air with the powder near the eye level of the males and sending Aelin a message to stay low, she would be able to avoid its weakening effect.

Feyre forced herself not to hold her breath while she continued to manipulate the air in the courtyard and looked for signs of detection. A long time later, Feyre pulled the breeze away from the gardens and back up to her balcony, where she collected the excess powder in her palm. Looking back down, she could only come to the conclusion that her actions had gone unperceived, for even with the distance between her and the foreigners, nothing had appeared to change. She wanted to have maintained the breeze for much longer, to have more assurance that the males had inhaled the powder which was missing from her hands. However, she knew that she would need the rest of her power reserves for the rest of her plan.

Pouring the powder from her hand back into the black drawstring bag, Feyre walked out from between the balcony curtains and made her way across the empty chambers. She reached into a pocket in her breeches and pulled out the wyrdkey, the obsidian shard humming coldly against her skin as she dropped it into the small velvet pouch. She set the bag onto a table in the corner and stepped in front of the mirror, risking a small ounce of power to sense for anyone near enough to witness. There was no one.

Giving her own body a long contemplation, Feyre reached down into her magical reserves, pulled on a single, dusty strand of power, and began to shift her face. 

... 

_Stay low. Be inconspicuous. Be ready._

Aelin repeated the message mentally, her mind jumping from one imagined scenario to the next. Though the cryptic message had been baked almost imperceptibly into the bottom of a piece of bread from her daily meal, Aelin knew it was from Feyre.

Considering her chained and man-handled situation, Aelin deciphered the message to mean that she was to stay low, physically, without drawing attention. As for the rest of the message, Aelin continued to conjure various sudden explosive moments of magic and weaponry that might lead to her having the slightest shot at escape. She tried to cool her mind, but as seconds dragged on and she started to envision moving without the iron chains, it became harder.

Hours passed, during which Aelin repeatedly scanned the hedges and as far as she could see through the iron mask. She waited with unsuppressable eagerness, but other than a steady breeze and the movement of the sun, everything remained still. As the sun moved, the courtyard she was being kept in acted as a sort of sundial, the shadows waxing and waning like the moon to tell time. The stone circle of the ground was on its last sliver of light; the lowering sun giving the leafy hedges and walls of the courtyard a golden glow, when something finally happened.

In a sudden flash of black smoke and mist, Aelin's narrow vision was replaced with dark skin and leather. The males around her shouted, the sound of metal unsheathing echoing across the courtyard; however, Aelin had only a moment to register the harsh yanking of her chains before a large, calloused hand clamped onto her forearm, and she was thrust into wind and darkness. The harsh clamor of breaking metal chains was still ringing in Aelin's ears when the world abruptly reappeared. Vibrantly green grass and trees shot upward as Aelin fell forward, gasping for air against the stifling iron mask.

The male standing above her wasted no time. Immediately, he dropped down and started working on her chains, the links turning bright red beneath his hands before he cut through them. If the heat radiating from his hands burned Aelin's skin, she couldn't tell for the disorientation from the teleportation and the adrenaline which pumped through her veins. Catching her breath, Aelin watched as the metal cuffs and remnants of her severed chains dropped from her limbs almost soundlessly into the lush grass.

The dark-skinned male was breathing heavily, releasing labored puffs of air between cuffs; unfolding behind his wide shoulders and dark hair were a pair of great black, sinewy wings, resembling those of a bat.

Finally orienting herself, Aelin opened her mouth to speak, but the male's head shot up, silencing her with a single look before tapping two fingers on the side of his temple. The final cuff fell to the ground, and Aelin nodded as the male moved to the mask on her face. A moment later, Feyre's voice flooded her mind. Surprised, Aelin reconsidered the winged male in front of her.

 _Listen, we haven't much time_ , the voice pulsed. Grimacing, the male- or Feyre in a male's body- nodded toward a small pack he had dropped in the grass.

 _I'm giving you the wyrdkey and provisions for a couple of days_ , her voice continued.

 _The blood will heal you. After, head North. Don't stop. Once you cross the border, Spring Court soldiers won't be able to follow._

The mask fell to the ground in two pieces with a series of dull rolling thuds. Suppressing a relieved sigh, Aelin shielded her eyes from the sudden onslaught of light and breathed deeply.

Fighting through whatever pain she was experiencing, Feyre's body stood up shakily, helping an equally unstable Aelin off the ground and shoving the pack into her arms.

 _The powder is being used by Hybern to damper our magic. Find Rhysand_ , her voice insisted. _You can trust the High Lord of the Night Court._

The male body cocked his head, listening for something in the distance that Aelin's still-adjusting senses could not hear.

 _Go_ , Feyre warned with finality- her great wings shifting wider.

Sparing only a single nod of thanks, Aelin turned and ran.


	24. PART 22: AELIN

Aelin quickly made her way further into the woods, sprinting nearly silently through the spread of trees and using the golden glow of the near-setting sun to judge her direction. Though she predicted she had an hour or two before the landscape fell to darkness, Aelin's unfamiliarity with the land propelled her to push forward. She moved mechanically, controlling her breathing with fixed counts and pumping her muscles in a steady rhythm. As her feet ate up distance, Aelin relished the unhindered movement of her limbs, liberated from the iron chains- while also cursing the weakness of her body.

Though she moved remarkably fast for human standards, the progress she was making in her fae form was noticeably slower. She had expected the poor physical condition of her body to be impeding, but the disorientation brought on by her unaccustomed fae senses proved far more surprising.

Her heightened hearing and vision put Aelin on unstable ground as she ran through the strange territory. An abundance of magical creatures and potent flora assaulted her senses incessantly; were it not for the visibility of the light from the sun, Aelin suspected that her progress would be even slower.

She knew that Maeve would have already sent males to track her, and though the Queen's males had had more time to adjust to the other-worldly Spring Court, Aelin expected that the new sensations of running through these forests were equally- if not, more- overwhelming to their more refined senses.

Soon, her pace began to slow, her ravaged body becoming heavier and less responsive. The air could only enter and leave her chest in dry, heaving gasps, her throat tasting of blood from the rawness of her lungs, and her legs threatening to buckle. Her chest constricted further as she acknowledged the implications of her exhausted body and hindered progress.

The surrounding trees suddenly began to thin, and Aelin purposefully slowed her pace as the coverage became more sporadic. She quickly reached the edge of what she had mistakenly assumed to be a dense forest.

 _Shit_ , she whispered raggedly, the breaths clambering out of her mouth in raspy puffs. Keeping just a few steps within the shadowed treeline, Aelin looked down upon a large village. Rows upon rows of brown buildings and branching streets, harboring hundreds of moving figures. The lights and constant buzzing of village-life spoke of non-stop activity, and no doubt thousands of occupants- thousands of eyes and witnesses.

Aelin retreated a couple of steps back into the treeline. She recalled the appearance of the fae who had welcomed Maeve upon their arrival at the Spring Court house- their pointed ears and stature very similar to her own; however, without the slight protrusion of canines that she possessed. If the occupants of this village were of the same fae species, Aelin would easily be able to slip through undetected; however, in a village residing in the far outreaches of any land- there were bound to be more differences than distance and money which separated its occupants from that of their ruler. And in a land that also possessed heightened levels of magic, she was unwilling to take the risk of hoping her human form might draw less attention than her fae one.

So, Aelin retreated even farther into the small woods, returned to a particularly hospitable-looking tree, and clambered up, where she stretched out her legs, balancing on a branch and leaning her back against the trunk. Nearly every bone in Aelin's body rebelled against her staying in one location, the adrenaline of near freedom and the knowledge of her pursuers pulsing in her veins. Urging her to run. Some part of her swore that she could hear the pacing of Maeve's fury and the quiet formidable thudding of her fae males spreading throughout the Court, throwing their senses around them in wide arcs, searching. Tracking her.

Aelin's thoughts won out over her instincts, though, as she knew that she could not afford being singled out in that village any more than she could afford staying still. She would wait for dark, and then she would use the cover of night to slip through.

She spent the next minutes listening intently across the trees, searching for signs of anyone who might hear her, or give her reason to move quickly. When she found none, she slowly twisted in the tree, her muscles screaming, and slung the pack off her shoulders.

Pulling her legs inward, she rested the pack on her thighs and slowly rifled through its contents. She made just a quick note of the various food provisions, before lifting a small black, velvet pouch. Though she could already determine its contents from the dark energy emanating with her close proximity, she gently pulled the strings open and looked inside. A slight shake of the bag shifted the thin white powder and revealed the black obsidian stone. The wyrdkey. She assumed the powder to be the aforementioned magic-inhibiting powder. Aelin pulled the strings closed and tucked the small pouch into her chest bindings.

She continued assessing the contents of her pack. Slight relief coursed through her, as she lifted a canteen of water, from which she drank deeply, her throat stinging from the cool liquid. She took pause, however, when she lifted another, smaller canteen.

Feyre's hurriedly spoken words resurfaced: _The blood will heal you_ , and Aelin warily uncorked the leather canteen. A sharp scent hit her nose, and she peered inside, considering the dark red liquid sloshing against the side. The tang of blood became more distinguishable; she recoiled slightly.

The fact that she even hesitated was godsdamned madness. Blindly drinking a stranger's blood should not have warranted any form of consideration. Yet...

Aelin was painfully aware of how her enfeebled body was hindering her progress, and she knew that her already slim chances of evasion narrowed with every moment she spent exhausted and weak.

Aelin watched the blood a minute longer before expelling a curse under her breath and lifting the canteen. She threw her head back and gulped the salty red liquid in three swallows.

Continuing with the pattern of doing things contrary to her instincts, Aelin used another swig of her valuable water to wash down the taste.

The effect was immediate. The sensation of Feyre's blood was much different than her experiences with healers in her own dimension or her own healing abilities. Where before, the healing process was slow and medicinal and drained from her or another's reserves of magic- this was the opposite.

It came in a rush of heat, a sudden warmth emanating from her center and spreading throughout her body. Her breath quickened in surprise. Her muscles contracted, tensing at the onslaught of magic. She imagined the blood sliding down her throat and pooling in her stomach; then slowly seeping into her bloodstream. It gradually moved up her veins, traveling and spreading down and throughout her limbs.

The time she has spent bound and weakened under Cairn's hands began to fade, overwhelmed by a heated, itching sensation. She continued to imagine the blood latching onto her muscle fibers and branching off into tiny tendrils, repairing damage and prickling the inside of her skin in its process. The places where Cairn had cut her made themselves acutely known, the itch intensifying, as if recounting old, distant memories; the ghost movements of blades tingled across her body, and she tightened her grip on the tree as the magic heightened to a less bearable level.

Aelin was beginning to consider the alternative outcome of her drinking the blood, when the near-stinging warmth began to back away- its crux having been met. The magic slowly filtered out of her body, seeming to expel from her heavy breaths in smooth invisible clouds, until only a faint prickling remained in some of the deep tissues of her muscles. No doubt places where Cairn had focused the most of his energy.

Aelin extended her arm, slowly twisting it through the space before her. Watching. Feeling. Testing. She thought she felt a distinct difference in that limb alone, but she knew she wouldn't be sure of the blood's effect until she started walking. So, for now, she closed her eyes, extending her fae senses into the unfamiliar world around her- and felt and listened and waited.

...

Night fell quickly, and Aelin eagerly slid from her perch in the tree as soon as she deemed it dark enough. If not for her pulsing need to move, then for the distant, reverberant sounds of gods-knew-what awakening from deeper within the woods.

The movement of all of her limbs at once was liberating. Her body felt looser and carried more strength than she'd felt in even the weeks leading up to her capture. Maybe longer. She awed over the returned strength in her arms and legs and pulled her shoulders back, savoring the loose movement of her back muscles. All from drinking a couple swigs of Feyre's blood. Even not knowing hardly anything about their world, Aelin suspected very few, if any at all, knew of the fae female's healing abilities. Aelin could list off a nearly-infinite number of names in her own who would kill for access to such strength and revival.

She continued to relish the unhindered motion of her body, as she began stalking through the forest. Back to the distantly emerging lights of the village.

Aelin revised her earlier statement of calling the settlement a village. It was a town. Albeit, a town with the profits of a smaller village. The streets were dirt, and the buildings fairly ramshackle, yet the silhouetted figures of the people she walked among spoke differently, their posture held higher and with less low-born commonness than their surroundings suggested. Even at night, construction crews and materials were strewn about. The constant hammering of tools reverberating across the buildings. A town of people who knew of better times- who were reconstructing. Healing.

She continued forward, down a dirt street which had used to be cobbled, if the skittering piles of stone were any indication. Without a hood to completely shadow her features, she angled her head down and moved forward, single-directionally and relying mainly on the ground and her peripheral vision. The cover of the night hid any suspicions prone to her posture, and she moved purposefully down the road.

Though she felt the fleeting eyes of those who walked as well, she successfully avoided mutual acknowledgement, and therefore interaction. She supposed; however, that in a town as noticeably close-knit as this one, her success was, in part, due to the festive meal-times taking place around her. On the edges of the streets, and in the spaces between the squat buildings- many of which appeared to be small businesses-, huddles of figures grouped around numerous fires, roasting fish and other sizzling animals, or chomping on various vegetable-like plants. Smaller child-figures sat closer, listening to stories, or playing amongst themselves- their shrieks of laughter spilling over the thick volume of older, conversational voices. Despite their poverty, the people spoke merrily and treated the evening like a small family gathering- everyone helping one another to the publicly-available food, yet also simply enjoying the evening. As if celebrating something.

One of the fire gatherings had been placed closer to the main road than the others, and as the orange flames illuminated the villagers more clearly, Aelin had to force herself to keep moving with a steady pace. To not stop and gawk, or break into a faster speed.

She had been right in her assumption that those who lived this far from the manor in which she had been kept would possess more differences than money. Sharp angles and elongated limbs, all made more jaunty by the night's blackness and the narrow light sources. Skin colors pulled straight from the rainbow. Some covered in fur. Others in metallic scales. Croppings of wings, large or small in size, smattering the village, reflecting the light of the fires. Some of the figures were illuminescent in themselves, as if they had their own light source living beneath their skin. The whole town was awash in the colorful eccentricities of its people- all clustered together and living off of the same resources like no other group Aelin had witnessed. Fae unlike any she had ever seen.

It was with great difficulty that Aelin prevented herself from raising her head entirely to examine the other townspeople around her. Yes, the fae here were much different than those in her own lands. And she felt the gaze of others more keenly as she continued forward in her nearly-human body- at least, compared to those around her. Her newly-replenished magic thrummed underneath her skin, and her muscles tightened instinctually with anticipation.

Fortunately, the number of fae lessened as she crossed the middle of the town and approached the opposite edge, the darkness thickening with the fires and townsfolk, which fell behind her.

Where the town was edged by the small forest on the south, its north side opened up into miles of rolling hills and cultivated fields of sorts, their slight forms just distinguishable in the night by the light from intermittent houses spotting the landscape.

Aelin hesitated. Feyre had failed to mention how long it would take her to reach the border, or if there would be any obstacles or other that entailed more than just walking across. With no inclination to what or how much lay ahead of her, Aelin was walking- quite literally- blind into the dark fields.

She recounted what she had seen walking through the town. Clusters of merry fae, working and laughing with one another. Children roaming freely and males and females wrapped in one another's embrace. It was a much more welcoming atmosphere than any in her own world. So, with another cat-stretch of her healed limbs, Aelin loosened her facial expression, curved her shoulders slightly inward, and tentatively shuffled back in the direction she had come.

...

It was no small comfort to find what she often considered the bloodlife of any town or city- the tavern. She supposed no matter the destitution or the wealth of a people, everyone had cause to drink. The building was slightly larger than the majority of others. And though its walls were made of precariously placed logs of wood, the life which teemed from its doors was akin to that of any tavern made of stone or rock. Sidestepping a boisterous trio of exiting fae males, she entered the building.

The room exploded in sound and light. Candles were placed on nearly every surface, and looking at the mass of raucously drunk patrons, Aelin marvelled at how none of them had been knocked over. Slipping her face into one of poorly-masked anxiety, Aelin moved through the room and to a table near the back. A bar would have been preferable for her needs, but the almost shanty-like tavern didn't have one.

She looked through the fae in the room, taking note of their continually varying physical attributes, and watched as a handful of them skitted about the room, carrying armfuls of mugs. They too were smiling.

Aelin caught the eye of one of the females- whose elongated arms and supple body appeared particularly inclined for carrying drinks through a crowd. The female smiled at her and lifted a delicate finger before disappearing through a set of doors. She returned seconds later, and as the female approached the table, Aelin noticed that her skin was of a very light blue, which appeared as pale tan from a distance. The fae woman's eyes sparkled a deeper shade of cerulean- similar to Aelin's own eyes-. The female's long, dark hair was stark against her pale skin, as she placed her hands on her hips and asked "What can I get for you, sweetheart?"

Aelin swallowed before answering in a soft, delicate voice. "Just water, please."

The female watched her for a moment before turning on her heel with a promise to bring it out. Swinging her pack from behind her, Aelin slowly searched through its contents until she pulled out a small bag containing coins, and folded it in her palms.

The fae woman returned, carrying a large tankard of water. Aelin had been staring at the door to the tavern, and jerked slightly in her seat when the water was placed on the table. Her eyes jumped to the female's, and she reached into her coin purse. "Thank you. How much-."

The fae woman sighed before pulling up a chair and sitting across from Aelin. Her long arms reached to the middle of the table. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Aelin allowed a brief moment of panic to slip across her features. "Isabel." she replied quickly. The fae woman smiled. "Now we both know that's not true, but I'm just going to move on. It's obvious you're not from around here, and since you have high fae in your blood and all-" The female gestured delicately to Aelin's face. Aelin's eyebrows raised slightly, but she must have taken it for another sign of panic, for she changed her course of direction. "Look- I don't need to hear your sob story. We've all got one to tell, the daughter of some high fae or another feeling the need to run away being the least of them." This time, the female gestured to the pack which Aelin held in her lap, and Aelin shifted slightly. "So, I'm just gonna cut to the chase." She reached across the table and held Aelin's hands in her own blue, spindly, fingers. "Where do ya need to get to?"

Aelin glanced at their intertwined fingers, more than surprised at the immediate compassion in them, before meeting the female's blue eyes. "North," she breathed. "Across the border." The female merely nodded. "Let's save you the trouble now and change that to Northwest. Those at the Summer Court will be much more open to a female's plight."

Aelin nodded eagerly, tucking away the information. "Now," the fae woman said, reaching for Aelin's pack "what do you have already packed-" Aelin turned away slightly, clutching the bag tighter. The female paused and released a slight huff of annoyance.

"Alright," she spoke. "Can you tell me what you have?"

Aelin ignored the question. "How far away is the border?"

The female tilted her head slightly. "The border," she emphasized, "is three hours away on foot, but once you enter the Summer Court, there won't be anything else besides grass and flowers for another handful of hours. You'll be better off staying here for the night, and leaving in the morning."

Aelin shook her head. "No. I need to leave the Spring Court as soon as possible."

The female arched a delicate brow in question, but Aelin continued in a timid voice. "Are there any... am I going to run into-" she finally settled. "-is it dangerous to be this close to the edge of the courts?" She bit her lip.

Peering at her from underneath long, dark, lashes, the female unwrapped her fingers from Aelin's hand and withdrew her arms. "Not lately, no. The creatures you're thinking of prefer lurking in the woods, anyhow. Nevertheless, I hope you have a weapon of some sort in that pretty little satchel of yours." It was a question, and even if she hadn't strapped the dagger she'd found in the pack to her leg, Aelin nodded.

The female blew an incredulous breath through her nose. "Am I going to have to worry about some fae male coming and knocking down my door, looking for you?"

Aelin dropped her eyes to her water. "It's not unlikely."

"Quick piece of advice, if you don't mind." The female met her eyes. "- don't be flashing your coins around like that. There's a great many of us who wouldn't hesitate to jump at the opportunity." Then, in a sudden motion, the she stood up, straightening to her full height and pushed the chair in almost maternally, her pale blue fingers wrapping around the wood.

"Well then, in regards to your seeking fae male, I better stop drinking, shan't I... lest my memory fail me while I'm recovering from the ale." Her eyes sparkled genially- a wink without the physical motion- and the blue female glided away to attend to another table.

Gently unfurling her fingers from where they still held her coins, Aelin returned the purse to her pack and slid the untouched tankard of water to herself. She sniffed and tasted its contents, and after she determined its reliability, she poured as much as she could into her partially-depleted canteen. Sparing another glance for the shockingly amiable fae woman, Aelin stood from her chair.

...

When she returned, the blonde fae girl had disappeared, surprising the keenly watchful blue faery. Shifting the numerous drinks in her arms, she loosed a breath and rolled her eyes. _Spoiled, self-absorbed high fae._ Ongoing poverty, grapples with famine, the destruction of homes, the murder of families, and a continuing influx of orphans... there were much larger problems at hand than the boredom of the high fae or an unwilling daughter being forced into marriage. The faery frowned at the thought of having to deal with any who came looking for the runaway fae girl, a snarl fighting its way onto her face. It fell, though, and her annoyance faded slightly as she lifted the near-empty tankard of water. She didn't know if it was generosity or just plain stupidity and ignorance. But sitting on the table where the tankard had been was a single, gloriously gold coin.

...

The movement of her body was astounding. She savored more in the pumping of blood and magic beneath her skin, her muscles no longer weighted with exhaustion and her lungs liberated from the wracking burn she had felt upon release from her chains. The landscape blurred around her, and the air whipped her hair, as her fae abilities propelled her through the night. A smile broke across her face.

She ran by sound and feel, more than sight. The grass, which separated the various fields of crops in a grid-like fashion, was thick and plush, quieting Aelin's thudding steps. And the heady sounds from the village-esque town quickly gave way to a gentle rustle of grass and trees. The day's warm breeze had cooled, and Aelin found it to be a comforting sensation as she ran through the Spring Court.

 _The Spring Court._ Not for the first time, Aelin pondered whether this name had been given arbitrarily, or if the land really did stand up to it. If, by some form of magic, the Spring Court forever experienced the respective season. She supposed it would be answered upon arrival to the _Summer_ Court.

She ran for hours, stopping less than periodically to take careful swigs of her water. The fae female from the tavern had said three hours on foot, but it felt much less than that when Aelin first felt the shift in magic of the border. Not very poignant, but somewhere in the near distance emanated a subtle hum- a slight vibration in the air, which signaled the border's presence. She came upon it quickly, slowing her pace immediately when it came into the view. The border itself wasn't visible, but Aelin knew exactly where it lay, by the sudden visual shift in the land.

Looking at the ground, the difference was not noticeable, for the grass remained the same. But looking up, where the Summer Court began, the rest of the landscape simply changed. Even in the dark, Aelin could see it. Trees that suddenly became taller and possessed thicker canopies. The flowers became more sporadic, while jumping from soft pastels to sharper and more vibrant hues. The sky appeared clearer, as well, and the ground stretched on for longer without the interruption of clusters of flowered bushes or budding trees. The Summer Court simply looked sharper, and Aelin knew that if it were daytime, the plant life would turn more yellow-green under the harsher golden light of the sun.

The hum of magic she sensed did not intensify as she approached and stopped just in front of the invisible line. It just simply was. As if created by the line of space where the Spring Court and the Summer Court's magics met, but could not exist at the same time. A vibration in the air due to the clash of power and resulting absence of it. She lifted one of her arms in front of her body- reaching across the border and twisting her fingers on the other side. Nothing. She brought her arm back to herself.

Her breathing had become ragged from her prolonged run, but she pulled in a lungful and steeled herself before stepping across the border and into the Summer Court.

...

The sun was a welcome blanket of warmth, its rays warming the ground on which Aelin lay as she somewhat reluctantly came to. Even when she awakened fully, she lay still under the thick outcropping of underbrush- extending her senses into the area for signs of consequential life. When she found none, she rolled out from her makeshift sleeping place and began loosening the knots from her shoulders. Taking a swig of water, she looked from her place at the very edge of a treeline and out across the field from which she had come. The sun was high in its path, and Aelin estimated she had slept for only a handful of hours.

The atmosphere hit her once more, as she ran her foot across the ground, erasing signs of her presence. Upon entering the Summer Court, she had been overwhelmed by a wave of warmth. The air had suddenly become denser- more humid and filled with the aroma of green plants and citrus. A not unwelcome reprieve from the ubiquitous musk of flowers in the spring court.

The differences in the two courts was infinitely more apparent in the daytime. The species of plants completely altered, the taller trees throwing long shadows across the forest floor. Like she had predicted, everything possessed a more golden hue than that of the Spring Court, and there were many more sources of water. Ponds and creeks and the rumbling promise of a river nearby.

She had ran through most of the night, and was an hour or two into the court, when her tired body forced her instincts to reason, and she had found a secure and hidden location to rest. Feeling the rejuvenation in her bones, she knew it had been necessary.

Aelin walked forward steadily, stretching and warming her stiff muscles. A thought had occurred to her during the night, and before she began running, she flipped open her pack and pulled out the small leather canteen that had contained Feyre's blood. With a single thought, the object erupted into flame, and Aelin watched as the canteen disintegrated, turning to ash in her palm. When it was done, she let the black powder fall from her closed fingers and spread gradually upon the ground, as she began trekking through into the woods.

She had no doubt that Feyre had risked a great deal to help her escape, and if the high fae's- so the blue female had called them- physical attributes were any indication, Aelin assumed that they would be able to smell the leather canteen and know exactly who it had come from. She would put Feyre's cover in as little danger as possible.

After a few minutes, her limbs felt loose enough to open into a light jog. She continued through the woods, increasing her speed and stretching as she saw fit, until she had broken into a near-sprint. Feyre had said that once she crossed the border, the Spring Court Soldiers would be unable to follow. But that did not apply to Maeve's warriors. So, Aelin intended on maintaining her near breakneck pace until she was many days out from the border. Maybe until she stumbled across another court.

When they had arrived to the Spring Court, Maeve leading her dozen warriors while she was wrapped in chains, the blonde male- Tamlin, she thought his name was- had introduced himself as one of seven high lords. Aelin automatically assumed that there were seven courts as well.

She considered this more as she ran. Feyre had also told her to _find Rhysand_. To _trust the High Lord of the Night Court_. Aelin had only ever really glimpsed one high lord, and she wasn't incredibly keen on meeting another. Not if they all possessed the power and arrogance of the one ruling the Spring Court. She didn't have time to deal with politics or thorny court intrigue. She had to find the second wyrdkey and get back to her own world, the need to return to her court pulsing beneath her skin like a second heartbeat- right alongside the thrumming power of the wyrdkey still pressed within her chest bindings.

She had very little reason to believe that the second wyrdkey- her family's amulet- had landed in the same world. But Maeve had been so calm walking through her portal, as if everything would soon be put back in order, and the wyrdmarks through which Aelin had thrown the keys had suffered only the slightest variation...

Something instinctual inside Aelin told her that both wyrdkeys had landed in the same place. The same world. And that the second key was not that far away.


	25. PART 23: ROWAN

Squaring his shoulders, Rowan sized up the male standing at the other end of the dimly lit hall, whose curved smile reflected like the sword he held casually at his side. Cairn had always been a sadistic bastard. Rowan recalled the years both he and Lorcan had spent trying to cull the cruelty which dripped from the male's features. A disturbing innate desire to inflict horrors and relish in the pain of others. Facing the male now, Rowan was once again reminded of their inability to leach it out of him; glossy sadism shone in the male's stark blue eyes. Or should he say: stark blue eye.

Neither made to move, and their emanating powers bore down on one another- their bared canines glinting in the torchlight. Rowan's gaze flicked to the dark patch covering the male's right eye, questioningly. As if feeling the direction of Rowan's gaze, Cairn cocked his head slightly, flipping his sword in his hand. "Ah yes," he drawled, while using the end of his blade to gesture to his covered eye. "I told her majesty not to keep pets in the palace. Animals can be such feisty creatures." Cairn's eyes shifted beside Rowan, to the open iron cell. "Especially when they're starved for food and companionship."

A low snarl built in the back of Rowan's throat, and his muscles tensed in anticipation. Cairn remained relaxed, continuing to flip his sword nonchalantly, as his languid words carried down the dark hall. "As for the eye," he shrugged. "Makes no difference to me. Her majesty will enlist the best healers, and it will all become forgotten." His lips curled into a wide sneer. "After, of course, I punish the girl in turn." Cairn's sword flipped once more before stilling; his fingers curled around the hilt.

"I can't complain too much," he continued. "Since her Majesty graciously gave me the job of taming the bitch-"

Rowan struck.

And a moment later, the stone hall was reverberating with the piercingly resonant clash of two swords. The males had been blurs as they collided in the middle of the hall. They bore down on one another, Rowan's roar shattering the air and covering the sound of grinding stone beneath their feet. The males were equal in stature, and their sword lock melded into a picture of raw, primal, strength and symmetry. Together, they took up nearly the entire width of the hall, as either male could nearly touch wall to wall with his arms extended.

Cairn's leering speech hadn't ceased, continuing from behind their crossed blades. "Did you come to retrieve her, Prince?," he spat.

Rowan shoved against their hold, and the two males skidded backward. He had only a moment to leash his pounding rage before Cairn shot forward. Their blades collided once more in a torrent of sharp clanging and sparks.

Even with their guttural voices ricocheting off the stone walls, their figures moved gracefully down the hallway, fluidly meeting the other's attacks movement for movement. Neither had touched the other, due to the tightness of their stances in the close quarters. With the compact space, Rowan couldn't risk his magic.

Quickly gaining the upper hand, Rowan pushed their fighting back in the direction Cairn had emerged and, slowly, out of the depths of the dungeons.

The power behind and collision of their strikes sent tremors through the stone. Parrying one of Rowan's blows, Cairn dodged the white-haired male's foot and stepped out of the arcing blade's reach.

"I wish you would have been there," he taunted, before blocking another of Rowan's blows. He yielded another step. "...to watch her blood pour while I painted over the markings on her back." Rowan's onslaught continued to force their rippling figures closer to the dungeon's exit, Cairn barely matching each of Rowan's strikes.

"-to hear her screams while I carved over old lines."

They were only ten feet away from the door that would lead them out of close-quarters, Cairn unseeming to notice, as he continued to yell over the clash of their blades.

"- and her cries as I re-traced new ones before that pesky magic could heal them."

Rowan's rage consumed him, tainting his vision in red and threatening to burst from his veins.

"- to witness her growing quiet, as I started a new painting each day."

Now, they fought five feet away from the door, their blades an incomprehensible blur of reflecting metal and sparks against stone. Cairn had left it open upon seeking out the intruder, and Rowan could see into the wider, entrance-like space.

"The way that I cut that fire out of her- one slice at time. Just like the way I peeled that black ink away from her skin."

Three feet away.

"I would have had more fun, but her Majesty forbade me from doing much elsewhere." His lips curled even wider, his eyes glinting with obsession. "It didn't please her, afterward, but I found ways to claim my due credit."

One foot away.

"One. Letter. At a time-"

Cairn took another step backward, the pair finally crossing the threshold and entering the wider passage.

Rowan exploded. In a sudden force of wind-whipped power and searing ice, the white-haired male charged with a terrifying roar, propelling their bodies across the open space. Cairn's body slammed into the stone wall, spider web lines cracking out from beneath his head. Pressing his forearm against Cairn's throat, Rowan's magic eased a fraction before driving into the male's body once more, sending the cracked lines of the stone spreading farther.

Cairn's solitary eye circled, unable to focus. Rowan's magic slammed his arms into the rock, pinning them while snapping his wrist. His blade clattered to the floor, and ice spread across his body, encasing him further to the wall, until only his head and gut were exposed. Cairn's moaning and the crackling of ice were overshadowed, as Rowan used his magic to lift the fallen blade and thrusted it into its owner's stomach. The brown-haired male's moaning turned guttural, the veins in his muscles popping underneath ice, as he strained to reach for where the blade impaled him.

"Where is she?" Rowan snarled, the primal words vibrating throughout the chamber.

Something between a laugh and a wet cough escaped Cairn's lips. "You're too late. Her majesty left weeks ago."

Rowan twisted the sword, carving through the male's insides until the tip of the blade scraped against the rock on the other side. Cairn's roar was animalistic, his ensuing breaths turned ragged.

"Where?" The ice spread farther down the wall, lethal rage dripping from Rowan's voice.

When the male didn't continue, Rowan twisted the blade again.

"-portal," the male choked out between screams. Rowan's hand stilled.

"Her Majesty ordered her and twelve guards through a portal two passages down."

Cairn gasped wetly, as Rowan slid the blade out of the male's squelching stomach.

"Where does the portal lead?"

Cairn spat in Rowan's face, only for another scream to erupt from his throat, as Rowan drove the sword through the ice and into the male's pelvis. Centimeters away from the groin.

Ice moved, encasing the hilt of the sword and sealing it in place, as Rowan released his hold on the weapon. He deftly unsheathed two more daggers from his leathers, spinning the blades idly in his hands.

When Cairn's screams subsided, Rowan asked again with deadly quiet: "Where does the portal go?"

"Some place called The Spring City or other," he growled through a heaving chest.

Rowan arched an eyebrow and raised a blade, spurring the pinned male forward.

"- Her Majesty came up with the marks after the girl sent two objects through her own portals the day we arrived." He shook his head. "It put her Majesty under a lot of duress."

Rowan's thoughts raced. Aelin had been captured with possession of the wyrdkeys. If Cairn's observations were accurate, she must have used wyrdmarks to create a portal and send the keys away- because throwing such lethal weapons away, at the risk of any stranger discovering them, was still better than the keys being in Maeve's control. Rowan's chest constricted at what Aelin had done- in the face of Maeve's anger and Cairn's cruelty.

And Maeve had copied her marks and re-created the portal, so that she could retrieve them. It made sense. He still did not know, though, why Maeve would risk bringing Aelin with her.

Rowan re-focused his attention on the shallow-breathed male before him. The ice had thickened considerably, and his hulking figure had become distorted beneath.

"Why were you left behind?" he spat venomously.

Through the glistening sweat and rapidly paling pallor of his skin, Cairn's lips curled into a sordid grin. "After the girl's outburst, after she put a dagger through my eye... I lost my temper- got a little too rough with her." Rowan's grip tightened on the hilt of his dagger.

"Her Majesty wasn't pleased and ordered me to stay behind."

Even trapped beneath Rowan's ice and bleeding out from his own blade, the blue eyed male had the gall- or sheer stupidity- to sneer at Rowan.

"I can play nice for a while," the bleeding male mused. "But mark my words- when her Majesty returns with that bitch-"

His words were cut off by a blood-curdling scream, as stark, and shattering, and gruesome as few Rowan had heard. Rowan tightened his grip on the dagger he had plunged through Cairn's eyepatch, twisting until there was no healer alive who could possibly restore the eye. The screaming renewed, and Rowan's ice spread to cover the male's mouth. The chamber fell into unearthly quiet, but for the low grunting and huffing air which escaped from Cairn's nostrils, blowing warm puffs of steam across the ice directly below.

Rowan maintained his hold on the dagger. "I would slaughter you where you stand," he snarled, leaning close to Cairn's face. "- and leave you pinned to the wall, impaled by your own blade for your queen to find." He twisted the blade more, gouging until the hole was the size of his fist- leaving no salvageable remnants to even suggest to once presence of an eye socket. "But you are not my kill to claim," he snarled coolly.

He yanked the dagger out of Cairn's face, blood spraying.

"And I do not want to take away the satisfaction of knowing that each and every day, when you look at yourself in the mirror and examine your missing eye- You will never forget that despite her lack of magic... despite starvation and torture... despite her physical weakness- my mate was able to best you."

He crashed the hilt of his dagger into Cairn's head, sending the male into violent unconsciousness. After wiping the blood-coated blade on the edge of his shirt, Rowan sheathed his dagger and turned away, his all-consuming rage pulsing beneath his skin, urging him to turn back and cut the male down.

By some unseen force, Rowan was able to resist his instincts, and, instead, made his way across the stone dungeons. Just as Cairn had said, two passageways down, throwing golden light within an unused, craggy stone cavern, thrummed the pulsating power of a still-open portal.


	26. PART 24: RHYSAND

Rhysand forced himself not to slam the door as he exited the townhouse. Charging down the doorstep, he finally allowed the long-suppressed growl to escape his throat.

Feyre's sisters were insufferable. Or, more accurately- Nesta was. Rhysand didn't think he'd ever met such a singularly hostile and combative person. He could have offered her a potion to turn back time, and he would have been met with a hateful retort and her glaring eyes. Cauldron only knew the sort of damage she would be doing if she were properly battle trained.

As for Elain- if it weren't for Nesta's vicious guard-like stance every time someone entered the room, Rhysand wasn't sure most would notice the sister's presence at all.

As far as he knew, all the young girl did anymore was sit in her chair and stare out the window. She was quiet and, most days, nearly unresponsive. Rhysand hadn't known her well in her human life, but what he had garnered from their few meetings, the sweet-tempered, bubbly girl was nowhere to be seen.

Between the two sisters, he wasn't sure which was worse.

Though it wasn't their ill-temperedness toward himself that infuriated him so. Nor their reported misconduct toward Nuala and Cerridwen, whom had been seeing to their needs. No, those things he deemed reasonable responses for what had been done to them. For the way their mortal lives had been shattered and upended.

The reason that Rhysand now stormed down the road was Elain and Nesta's blatant disregard for their youngest sister's whereabouts. Once, a couple days after their arrival, Elain had quietly inquired about Feyre, but Nesta had cut her off, denying any interest. Elain had not asked since.

Neither of them had any comprehension of the sacrifices that their youngest sister had made for them. Both in their mortal lives, and presently. Nor did they seem to care.

Rhysand clenched his fists as the townhouse grew smaller behind him. He was already late for the meeting, but his temper was in such a precarious state that he opted to walk rather than winnow. Hopefully, it would be enough to calm himself before hearing whatever intel Az had to share.

Upon returning to Velaris just a few hours prior, Azriel, without much context, had immediately called for a meeting. The shadowsinger had not deemed the matter worth dropping everyone's activities, but he had pronounced it urgent enough to meet at everyone's earliest convenience. Which was supposed to have been five minutes ago.

As Rhysand walked through Velaris, he tugged on the bond. Still no reply.

It had been nearly a week since Feyre's previous note. Once arriving back at the Spring Court, she had kept him rigorously informed about every one of Tamlin's movements, and the note served simply as an update to the state of Prythian's foreign guests. Aside from an idea or two about the situation with the stone, Feyre had no new information. Rhysand had plenty to contemplate as it was.

If the Queen's prisoner, a woman named Aelin, was to be trusted, then the stone and amulet could bring about great destruction. This Queen Maeve was obviously aware of this power, and Feyre's intuitions, which he trusted wholeheartedly, meant that if the Queen gained possession of them, they wouldn't be used to help feed the poor.

After learning Feyre's intel, Rhysand thought that the Queen would make a strong, if not, interesting adversary. As far as he knew, she had yet to display any form of magic or battle skill set; yet, she commanded many fae warriors who possessed shape-shifting abilities and heightened senses, even beyond those of the high fae. Males like that would not follow someone without cause, and Rhysand suspected that the guiling fae queen was much worse than either of them could currently discern. Feyre's descriptions reminded him of an Amarantha who had yet to be unleashed. Rhysand shuddered.

In addition to the Queen's movements, with Hybern's nephews investigating the breaches in the wall, the Spring Court seemed like a cauldron of catastrophic disaster just waiting to boil over. And the Night Court had too little information to do anything about it. With Tamlin's borders still sealed tight, and Feyre's position so precarious, they had just enough information to be worried.

Rhysand tugged on the bond again. In her previous note, Feyre had also written that she was being watched closely, and upon discussion, they had decided to stop all direct communication for the time being. It would last no more than four weeks, and as soon as she felt it was safe, she would tug on the bond or resume communication. If four weeks passed, and it still wasn't secure, Feyre would return to the Night Court- return home. If the weeks passed without notice from Feyre, Rhysand would take it as something gone awry, and they would extract her from the Spring Court. Until then, she would lay low, and they would brainstorm ways to get the stone out of the Spring Court.

Though less than a week had passed, Rhysand had already taken to tugging on the bond whenever he was alone, which, by his own doing, had not been very often. Feyre had yet to tug back, and every lack of response put him a little more on edge. Because of this, he had also taken to organizing a very busy schedule for himself, so that he didn't spend all of his time brooding over his mate's whereabouts.

As he continued to walk, his anger slowly ebbed away. He unclenched his hands and slid them into his pockets. Cresting a slight hill in the pavement, a little restaurant came into view. Azriel had called the meeting, but Mor had organized the location, insisting on somewhere that served food.

He cringed slightly as he reached the door, which sported a "closed for the afternoon" sign. It wasn't as if the owners were forced to clear out their restaurant. In fact, Rhysand couldn't keep track of the number of times he had had to convince a business owner not to close his or her entire establishment for the sake of Rhysand and his court. He despised the sensation that he was disrupting everyone else's activities, when an owner reserved the entire building.

However, with Feyre's sisters staying in the townhouse, at which none of them were particularly inclined to spend any amount of time, they had been forced to find another location. And for the purpose of the meeting, it was necessary to have the space to themselves.

Pushing open the door, Rhysand was reminded of another reason that Mor had chosen a location in Velaris, rather than the House of Wind. Cassian leaned against the kitchen doorway, twirling a dagger. The meeting location being in Velaris meant that none of them would have to winnow or fly to get there. Though Cassian's wings were no longer bandaged, and Rhysand had been assured by the healer, who he, Mor- and he suspected Azriel- had kept in constant contact with, that the exercises were going very well, until he saw the war general in the skies, Rhysand would take none of it for fact.

"Nice of you to stop by, high lord," Amren drawled from where she sat at the table. Rhysand closed the door behind him and made for a chair.

"I just came from the townhouse," he gave as a reply.

He was met with knowing looks across the room. Mor, who had already been seated, turned to Cassian and nodded some sort of unspoken consent.

"Thank the cauldron," he said, moving from the doorway to join them.

Looking around, the majority of the tables and chairs had been pushed to the sides, leaving only one long, rectangular table in the middle. However, the owner had left them use of more than just the space. Stretched out across the table were many tiered towers of varying delicacies, the spices wafting through the room.

Before Rhysand had even taken his seat, Cassian's plate was half full. He had two bit-size sandwiches in his mouth before he spoke again.

"She," he said while pointing his fork accusingly at Mor "- made us wait until you got here."

Mor rolled her eyes. "Common courtesy, Cassian."

"I've got loads of courtesy," he continued around a mouthful of food. "Just not when I haven't eaten anything since breakfast."

He was reaching for another sandwich, when the table of food suddenly disappeared. "Hey!" Cassian roared, turning to Amren.

She wrinkled her nose, her hand still lifted from making the food disappear. "Gorge yourself on your own time, Illyrian."

"Just because you don't eat, doesn't mean you can go around depriving us of food," he growled.

Amren's eyes flared. "Can't you males set aside your barbarous habits for five minutes."

Cassian opened his mouth to retort, when Rhysand cleared his throat. They turned to him, where he sat with his arms folded and his legs propped up on the table, waiting. Their argument fell silent.

Cassian's eyes were lethal as he grumbled and took a seat. He examined his now empty hand, as if imagining the food that had been there a mere second ago.

The four of them at the table turned expectantly to where Azriel still lurked in the corner. Meeting their gazes, he pushed off the wall and stalked forward, shadows trailing behind him. Resting a single hand against the table, he announced. "We have intel that Hybern is launching an attack on the Summer Court. Half a legion, maybe less. And aiming straight for Adriata."

"Bull shit," Cassian interjected. "Why would Hybern strike Adriata? There's nothing for him there."

"Maybe not in Adriata, no."

Rhysand turned to Azriel. "You think it's a distraction?"

The shadowsinger shrugged. "Possibly. It could be a ploy to draw attention to the Summer Court, while Hybern does something elsewhere."

"Or moves something elsewhere." Mor added.

The table nodded. It was entirely possible that Hybern was planning on moving the cauldron and wanted Prythian's attentions divided. It seemed logical; however, it troubled Rhysand just how logical.

Amren looked up from her nails with a sardonic smile. "It would be too obvious. To cause trouble in one court, just do they could slip something through another."

She had taken the words right out of his mouth.

"Even if they're winnowing the cauldron around, they'd still want the least amount of eyes possible," Mor continued. "If that's not what's going on with this attack, then it's still something to consider."

"Agreed" Rhysand concluded while making a note to think more on it. He turned back to Azriel. "How long?"

"They arrive at the city in four days."

"Does Tarquin know?"

"We believe so."

Rhysand nodded. He, Feyre, and Amren still had blood rubies on their heads, and he didn't think Cassian would ever be allowed back into the city. However, if Tarquin would allow them to fight, it might help heal their relations. And if they could get their hands on one of Hybern's generals doing so... it could mean more information.

Even if Tarquin rejected their assistance, it was still wort the effort of warning them of the incoming attack.

A piece of paper and a pen appeared on the table, and everyone watched as Rhysand unfolded his arms and reached for the sheet.

"What are we writing?" Mor asked.

"One hell of a get well soon card" was Cassian's reply.


End file.
